Nighthawks
by OmniHelix
Summary: Rachel makes an unlikely friend in New York. Post "Goodbye"
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I do not own Glee nor its characters. **

She fell in love with the diner the minute she saw it. It sat on the corner of a poorly-lit street, a few blocks away from her dorm. Oddly, none of the kids Rachel Berry knew at NYADA ever mentioned it, probably because it wasn't fashionable enough: just a counter with stools, no booths, and big silver coffee urns along the back. But it was perfect for her needs.

Two in the morning, and Rachel couldn't sleep: her need to always be ahead of her assignments and Finn's ghost had conspired to give her recurring insomnia, something she had never suffered from, at least on a regular basis, in high school. There was an espresso maker in her room, but it was noisy and would disturb Bianca, her roommate. So she hit the street, looking for a place with caffeine where she could study. Might as well put the sleeplessness to use. Besides, it was Friday morning and her two classes that day were both in the afternoon; she could try and sleep later.

The Starbucks was crowded with noisy students, none of whom Rachel particularly liked, so she passed it by. Soon she was walking down a side street, and saw The Arabica. It had large glass windows, and its friendly, bright lights flooded the corner. Inside, the only visible person was a tall, lanky waitress of indeterminate age, with a mass of reddish, curly hair and a once-pretty face with impossibly red lipstick. Her nameplate said "Marge". Rachel bet she called everybody 'hun'.

"Need a menu, hun?" It was a surprisingly low, expressive voice. Rachel set her bag down and took off her coat.

"Just some black coffee, please, "she ordered, watching Marge draw from the huge silver urn behind her into a chipped beige mug. She sipped, and raised her eyebrows. It was excellent, with a bright, complex flavor. It smelled wonderfully rich.

"This is delicious," Rachel said. Marge smiled.

"Thanks. I'll tell the owner. He has family in the coffee business in Kenya, and gets East African coffee ridiculously cheap. That's Kenya AA you're drinking."

"Do you sell the beans?" Rachel asked hopefully. Even Bianca would like this.

"Sure. I'll get you a pound when you're ready to leave. I take it you're here to study?" Marge looked interested.

"Yes. I'm at NYADA, and I have to read this play for next week". Marge picked up the book, _The Collected Plays of Harold Pinter_.

"Which one?" Marge glanced through the book.

"_The Homecoming." _ Have you read it?" Maybe Marge could give her some pointers!

"No," Marge said, putting down the book, "But I did see the film he did the screenplay for, the one with Dirk Bogarde, _The Servant_, and the one with Peter Finch and Anne Bancroft , _The Pumpkin Eater_. Both films are amazing._" _

Rachel scribbled the names down. Seeing them might help her understand the play. She smiled at Marge.

"Thank you so much! Were you a student at NYADA?"

Marge laughed. "No, I was at Tisch. I even married an NYU professor." She filled Rachel's cup. "NYADA kids don't come here. It's not trendy enough. We get some NYU rats, though."

Rachel looked at her own engagement ring, and looked at Marge's empty left hand. "What happened?" she asked gently, "With the professor, if you don't mind my asking?"

Marge's eyes glistened over. "He died," she said simply, adjusting her apron. "He was a lovely Englishman, from Devon. We were going to retire to a farm he owned there. He called me the next Tallulah Bankhead." And then she laughed, easily. Rachel smiled. "Do you have somebody?" Marge asked, noticing her ring.

"I thought I did, "she replied sadly, and ended up telling her story as Marge listened. Telling it physically _hurt._

"You haven't communicated with him since you left?" Marge looked thoughtful. Rachel shook her head.

"Then he must really love you."

Rachel just looked at her. "What?"

Marge stopped polishing the cutlery.

"Listen, hun. You're at NYADA, with one of the most cutthroat student bodies in the country. Over at Tisch we used to make jokes about you guys selling each other's organs to the Mob to get ahead." Rachel giggled ; it wasn't far from the truth.

"Your Finn knows he would be nothing but a distraction at a time when you least needed it. Can you imagine getting to know a new husband in the middle of all you have to do now?"

Rachel remembered that first silly fight on Valentine's Day. Marge had a point.

"Hun, he gave up being your husband to ensure you reached your dream, the dream you had long before meeting him. And he's probably out there wondering how he can live without you-it must have cut him to the quick to give you up- but I bet he never regretted making that decision. And I bet he will come back to claim you when you accomplish what he set you free to achieve. But you guys need to communicate somehow. Just let each other know you're okay."

"I just wonder if I can wait," Rachel said, crying. "I don't know if I'm that strong."

Marge scoffed. "You had the strength to leave him for New York. You have the strength to wait for him, believe me." Then she leaned over the counter, and took Rachel's hands in hers. "If you find yourself faltering, you know where I am, hun. I'll talk you down with the best coffee in the city. Now get to reading that play, and bounce stuff off me while I get ready for the breakfast shift change. We have two and a half good hours."

Rachel brushed back a tear of gratitude. Marge just might be the first real friend she had made here. But she had to know something.

"Marge? Are you going to be able to retire to the farm? And why are you here? "

"I sold the farm, Rachel," she said. "It wouldn't have been the same without my Nigel. He was a sweet, gentle Englishman who loved Devon- almost as much as he loved me." She managed a sad, but still saucy grin. "As for here, I really don't have to work. But I've had bad insomnia for years, since Nigel died." She paused for a moment. "We were connected, you know? Ever since he first saw me on stage at that crummy little theatre. We always knew when the other was sad, for instance. He used to call it the silver cord. But now, I don't know. He's been gone ten years, and the cord is still there. At night it chafes my heart and I can't sleep. The owner of this diner is a friend of mine, and he offered the graveyard shift to me. I get to keep my mind off of Nigel, and meet interesting people. Like you."

Rachel felt her heart clench in her chest. "Finn and I have a connection," she whispered, "We called it the tether. I think it's why I can't sleep, too."

"Well then," said Marge, "That makes us a couple of nighthawks with something in common."

Rachel laughed.

"Are you on stage anymore?"

Marge shook her head. "Not since I lost him. He was my muse, I guess. And he came to every performance of mine he could. I can't imagine doing Ibsen again without him. "

"I'd come to see you." Rachel threw her a meaningful glance as she sipped her coffee. "Nigel would be there, too, I know it."

Marge gave her a long look. She suddenly wiped her hands on her apron. "I'll think about it." Seeing Rachel's expression, she laughed. "Something tells me you're gonna nag me if I don't go back."

"Finn could tell you tales about me that would curl your hair," Rachel said with a grin, and suddenly realized she was able to talk about him easily again without it hurting so bad she couldn't breathe. "Maybe the cord won't chafe as much if you go back to the stage."

"Let's get some studying done, young lady," Marge was gruff now, but had a lightness to her overall demeanor that warmed Rachel's heart. Maybe she could get through this after all.

But first things first: she pulled out her phone, and sent a text:

*_I love you, you big lug._*

It would probably be some time before he would be able to respond, if he did respond at all. That was okay with her, now. At least he would know she was fine. And suddenly she had a craving.

"Could I get some banana bread with this, please, Marge?"

She started reading. Banana bread never tasted as good.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Many thanks for the kind words and encouragement. I've decided to make this a multi-chapter, ongoing tale. Enjoy!**

It was a week-and-a-half before he replied. And it was perfect, Rachel thought:

*_I love you too, short stuff_*

She showed it to Marge the next time she went to the diner to study.

"What do you think of it?" Marge asked, filling Rachel's cup.

"It's good. It's light-hearted, and God knows that hasn't been a word to describe our situation in a while. I can deal with us at this level right now, you know? It lets me concentrate on what I have to do." Rachel almost chugged the coffee down—she was starting to love this stuff.

Marge went back to polishing the cutlery, listening.

"It might sound a bit ironic, considering where I'm going to school, but for once, having drama dialed way back in some aspects of my life is a good thing."

Marge laughed. "I'm beginning to love this Finn guy myself. It sounds like he knows what you need. Maybe more than you realize."

Rachel snorted. "Well, that stunt he pulled at the train station was something I didn't need. I cried my eyes out all the way to New York."

"Was there a more opportune time?" Marge stopped polishing and looked at her. "Would you rather have cried for days beforehand, PLUS the time on the train?"

"I hate it when you-and _him_—are right," Rachel pouted. They both laughed.

"Anyway, I wrote an explanatory email laying out a simple texting plan for both of us to get through it." Marge looked at her like she was crazy.

"No, no. I'm—not that girl anymore, Marge. Take a look." Rachel handed Marge her iPad:

_My Darling Finn, _

_This will most likely be the only email or letter I send to you while we remain apart (Kurt gave me the address, please don't be mad at him, just read on). _

_I think I understand why you did what you did. You should know that I think you are right. At first, I was confused and upset and heartbroken over our parting. The tether made it difficult for me to sleep. Fortunately, I have made a friend named Marge (I would love you to meet her someday) who showed me how your sacrifice helped ensure my success here at NYADA. I couldn't handle being newly married and succeed here at the same time. I have to focus on my work. I think you knew that deep down, and I will eternally be grateful for what you did, what you did out of love for me. I also know what it cost you. _

_.__Just know I still love you completely, and as long as you still love me, I will meet you at the end, whenever, or wherever that is. And if you still want me to marry you, my answer will be yes, yes, yes, with all my heart._

_You are right: we both have work to do, work that will take commitment and focus, before we can ever be together again. But I can't do this if I don't know you are safe. So, all I need from you is a simple text every now and then, whenever you can, telling me you still love me. That way I will also know you are safe. That's it. I neither need nor want details in emails or letters or phone calls* Truly, all I need to make it through this is knowing that you are safe, and that you love me. _

_I once told you that my personality, while exciting and full of surprises, was high-maintenance. I'm not that girl anymore. I can't be, not with you. Not after what you did for me. And I will spend the rest of my life proving to you I was worth the sacrifice, I swear. _

_I pray each night that you are kept safe, wherever you are. And I have a cool astronomy app on my phone so I can locate your star in the sky, even if it's cloudy. And I dream of having the joy of rediscovering you one day. _

_Forever yours, faithfully,_

_Rachel_

_*Of course, should you find yourself in the New York area on leave, or some such, I would appreciate the opportunity to fuck your brains out, and vice versa. Just saying._

As she read, Marge began to tear up, but then she suddenly let out a guffaw. "Oh yeah, this is great! Send it".

Rachel sent it out, while Marge got some banana bread. She set down the plate, and leaned on the counter.

"Hun, you're strong. You'll get through this. And you will bring him in for some of my coffee one day, I know it."

Rachel nodded. It was strange. Two weeks ago she had felt at her wit's end; now she was calm, focused. Her old self. That felt good. She looked forward to the afternoon's vocal training.

"So, did you think some more about what we talked about?" Rachel asked, digging in.

Marge grinned. "Yep. I sent out some inquiries to my theatre friends." Rachel clapped her hands in delight.

Her phone buzzed. Rachel frowned, then suddenly gave Marge a serene smile:

_*Meet you at the end. Be in that wedding dress.* _

Marge poured herself a cup of coffee, and the two women clinked mugs, before getting down to work.


	3. Chapter 3

Marge was wiping down the counter when Rachel showed up with her backpack at 2:30 AM. Thursday nights were tough, she said, nights when the tether chafed the most, but the fact she had only afternoon classes helped. She poured Rachel a cup of coffee and watched her take off her coat.

Her coat was a hooded beige duffle, with wooden peg buttons. Nigel had worn one similar to it, much larger, rougher and robust, that his father had worn in the Royal Navy during the war. He had draped Marge with it on their first date, when the temperature dropped to ten degrees as he walked her from the theatre late that night. That was when he called her the next Tallulah Bankhead, and didn't seem surprised at all that she knew who the actress was. He was the epitome of an English gentleman, with impeccable manners, but who, when they were entwined late at night, pleasured her like no other, and commanded a daunting arsenal of Anglo-Saxon profanity.

Marge lovingly put the memory back on the shelf. "How's it going, hun? Getting any easier?"

Rachel grinned excitedly. "It's going great!" she exclaimed. She was dressing more like a New York student, Marge noticed, but with her own quirks. Tonight she wore a gray cardigan and skinny denim jeans, but instead of the ubiquitous UGGS or Converse high-tops, she wore an understated pair of sand-colored suede desert boots. "Carmen Tibideaux wants to meet with me once a month to check on my progress! We had our first meeting yesterday!"

"Carmen was the dean at your audition, right?"

Rachel nodded. "Apparently, the video of our Nationals performance has gone viral with the artsy set, and I'm getting recognized in the halls. Some even want to talk about technical aspects of the performance! Oh Marge, I'm beginning to feel like a professional. Carmen had questions for me about some of the moves and my vocalization." Then Rachel gave a shy look. "She also had questions about my engagement ring."

"Really?" Marge was quizzical. "Why?"

"Well, it's going around that my fiancée is the tall male lead in the video. She wondered what was up with that, and if it was going to affect my performance at school."

"What did you tell her?"

"The truth." Rachel laughed. "I said we decided to be apart until our work was done. And she smiled, saying I was doing well, according to my professors."

"That's great!

"Yeah, But there's one thing that's bothering me, Marge." Her face grew pensive all of a sudden. "Somebody found out I was also Prom Queen, and now several guys have been pestering me to go out."

Marge looked sympathetic. "How did you handle them?"

"I told them I was obviously an engaged woman, and that they should go sniff somewhere else. But I get the feeling one of them won't take no for an answer."

"Oh, _hun_," Marge said soothingly, "That's awful. Make sure the school is aware if he gets too persistent. Or kick him in the yarbles." Rachel grinned.

"I looked up NYADA's harassment policy. If he crosses the line, he'll regret it. But that's not the worst part."

Marge took her hand. "You miss Finn, don't you? You miss the… closeness." Rachel nodded silently.

"I had a similar experience when I was engaged to Nigel," Marge said suddenly, and was glad to see Rachel perk up.

"There was this guy in the theatre company that liked me, and didn't take my engagement well. He kept pestering me to go out—like your skeevy little pervert. I didn't know what to do. This was before harassment policies. To make matters worse, he was the male lead in the play we were doing, and I had to play opposite him." Rachel grimaced.

"So what did you do?"

"I mentioned it to Nigel one night. I half expected him to explode, but he didn't. Instead, he kissed me and said he'd take care of it. I got worried, because the actor was big and muscular, and Nigel was well-built, but…let me show you." Marge went in the back and emerged a few minutes later with a picture. Rachel smiled. It was of the two of them, taken probably in the eighties, judging by Marge's hairstyle. She looked great, in an elegant green dress. Next to her was a shorter, slender man, with blonde hair and beard, dressed in an expensive-looking gray three-piece suit. They looked happy.

"He's gorgeous," Rachel said.

"Yeah, he was. Anyway, during the next rehearsal, Nigel showed up, wearing that suit, by the way. He walked up to George, shook his hand and introduced himself. 'I commend your exquisite taste in women,' he said, in perfect Queen's English, 'But unfortunately for you, Margaret is engaged to me, old boy. You'll be leaving her alone from now on.' "

Rachel pretended to swoon. Marge smirked.

"George just laughed and asked what he was going to do about it." Marge chuckled and put up her hand. "I know what you're thinking. This sounds like dialogue from a cheesy movie, right? And, in a way, it was…I was watching the whole thing unfold in fascination, because I knew Nigel didn't really speak that way. He had a pronounced Devon accent, which sounds nothing like Colin Firth, believe me."

They were interrupted by an actual customer coming in, asking for something to go. He looked like a student, and gave Rachel an appreciative onceover and smile before leaving. She gave him a shy smile in return.

"There was a time when no guy would even look at me twice," she lamented, shaking her head. "But now, when I miss Finn the most, they are coming out of the fucking woodwork."

Her use of profanity was startling enough, but the resigned look and shake of the head was just hilarious.

"You're going to be just fine, hun," Marge said, chuckling.

"So tell me the rest of the story, Marge!" Rachel waved her coffee cup, and Marge refilled it.

"Let's see…Everyone just stood there, watching it unfold. George thought he had the upper hand, looking all cocky. Nigel just took off his jacket and handed it to me, with an elaborate kiss. Then he loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves. 'Right, I'm going to have to teach you a lesson, then,' he said."

"What were you thinking, Marge?" Rachel asked, " I mean, were you worried?"

"Damned right I was worried. I thought my Nigel was going to take a pounding for me—George was so much bigger. But it was fascinating, like being hypnotized, even though I wanted to just step in and stop it. But something about Nigel's fake accent told me to hold off and let it play out."

Rachel loved how Marge's face softened at the memory. She looked more like the beautiful, statuesque redhead in the picture.

"George put his fists up. 'Let's do this' he barked. 'This will not end well for you, old boy,' Nigel warned, 'Trust me'. George just snorted and moved forward. Rachel, he should have sensed something was wrong. This little man was just too calm. But it was too late. Nigel transformed himself. One second he was a small, wiry professor-type, and the next he looked like Muhammed Ali, gracefully moving around on the balls of his feet, fists up, utterly relaxed. That surprised George, who hesitated for a second, and my Nigel, ever the English gentleman, gave him one last chance: 'You will regret this, I promise. Please stop.' But George thought he was bluffing, and threw a powerful punch at…nothing. His opponent had disappeared, and the next thing George knew, Nigel's right came out of nowhere, landing squarely on his jaw, snapping his head violently around. George shook his head in disbelief, and had no sooner raised his fists again when Nigel landed a precise uppercut to the solar plexus, right above his abs, and he went down suddenly, gasping for air like a newly-landed fish. He didn't try to get up. Everyone was caught by surprise. Finally, Nigel leaned down and extended his hand, asking, this time in his normal Devon accent, 'You all right, mate?' George (once his breathing returned), nodded and actually accepted Nigel's help in getting up. To his credit, he gave Nigel a rueful smile and said, 'Where in hell did you learn to fight like that?' Nigel grinned and extended his hand again. 'Nigel Bailey, welterweight boxing champion, Jesus College, University of Oxford, 1971.' "

Rachel squealed (guiltily, given the stern lectures she used to give Finn and Puck about violence) in delight. Marge had a dreamy look, tempered with sadness. "He was my hero," she said. Rachel took her hand.

"We knew how to pick 'em, that's for sure, Marge."

When her studying was done, it was almost light. As she put on her coat, Rachel thought about Finn, Nigel, and George, along with her erstwhile suitors, and even the student customer. She felt a sudden pang of loneliness, and a familiar physical ache. She sighed, and texted:

*_You are so lucky I love you right now.* _


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: made a small revision for continuity. **

Marge Bailey loved her little job. The graveyard shift at The Arabica helped her fill the time when her beloved Nigel's presence robbed her of a decent night's sleep. During the day he mercifully eased off, and she managed to be able to scrape together enough rest to keep from breaking down physically, but it played hell with any kind of social life. Money wasn't a problem; Nigel's life insurance, savings, plus her very simple living habits, made it possible for her to maintain a reasonably decent Brooklyn apartment and work only at the diner.

There were rarely many customers on her shift, other than Rachel and a regular set of NYU students to whom Marge was like a kind of den mother. They usually showed up on her Friday night/Saturday morning shift. A couple of them were at Tisch, and loved talking to her about the theatre. Most were from the New York area, but this semester they dragged a new member into the group, from Southern California. He looked like something out of a sixties surfer movie: small and slender, but powerfully-built, a once-deep but now-fading tan, shaggy, sun-bleached hair, and deep blue eyes. While the others preferred the emo look, black jeans, ironic t-shirts and filthy sneakers, Geoff Fielding dressed in faded, _clean_ Levi's, Mexican Baja hoodies, and huaraches, or, when it got colder, desert boots like Rachel wore.

But Geoff was no Jeff Spicoli. He was a serious student of English, with designs on being a professional writer. He loved surfing, but never quite seemed to have embraced the stereotypical culture. He told Marge he was at NYU to learn, and his clothing style was chosen for its clean, supreme comfort, not the lifestyle message that it sent. Marge liked him. He was serious and soft-spoken, but not a killjoy, apparently; he rolled generous, perfect joints, according to his friends. His favorite author was Thomas Pynchon, and Marge, who was a secret Pynchon fan herself, enjoyed talking with him. He once showed her a picture he took on his phone of the apartment in Manhattan Beach where Pynchon lived while writing _Gravity's Rainbow,_ back in the seventies.

There was something else about him, Marge noticed. Geoff came to The Arabica with his friends, but usually ended up sitting alone, re-reading a battered, note-filled paperback of Pynchon's massive _Against the Day_ for a class he was taking. "I can't sleep", he admitted. Marge sighed. What was it about this place that attracted sleepless nighthawks?

"Well, you've come to the right place, hun," she told him, mug in hand.

It turned out he couldn't sleep because he missed his Elena. They met on Hermosa Beach through their mutual love of surfing; however, they went to different high schools. But that wasn't all. She wanted to be a writer as well ("Can you believe that?" Geoff marveled). It seemed like a match written in the stars ("Even if she is more a D.H. Lawrence fan than Pynchon"). Marge couldn't believe her picture: she looked like Charlize Theron on a very _good _day. Marge liked the short, spiky blonde haircut, and the calm, intelligent green eyes.

"We both applied to U.C. Berkeley," he told her one night. "Elena got in, but I didn't—the place is insanely competitive, and she's a much better writer than I am." Marge was touched by the pride in his voice. "But I did get in here, which Elena keeps telling me isn't too shabby."

"It isn't," Marge assured him.

Even Skyping couldn't stave off the longing. The two of them, it seemed, were more than just deeply in love: Elena and Geoff had an intense, almost symbiotic artistic relationship. All through high school they met at each other's houses, writing and editing together, as passionate about that as they were about their surfing. Cut off from both passions (they refused to surf without the other), the longing manifested itself as insomnia, for both of them. Typically, Geoff was more worried about Elena than himself. "She has more morning classes than me, and they're tougher," he lamented to Marge, who seriously doubted that last statement. The boy needed a rest.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

The next week, Rachel showed up on her usual night, looking worn out.

"I've been focusing on my dancing, and that, combined with the insomnia…I'm just whipped," she said, yawning. She looked at Marge drawing the coffee like a starving man views a steak.

Marge plopped the coffee in front of her. "I'm worried about you," she said. "You can't keep going at this pace without something breaking down."

"I know," Rachel admitted. "But don't worry, I've decided to take the weekend off. I'm caught up with all my work. Bianca's going home for the weekend so I have the room to myself. Its movie-watching and pleasure reading time! "

Rachel didn't have as much in her backpack, Marge noticed. Rachel grinned, "I'm only here because I can't sleep. No work, just a book."

"Which one?" Marge asked. Rachel pulled out a paperback of John Fowles's _The French Lieutenant's Woman_.

"It's one of my dads' favorite movies, so I figured I'd try the book."

"Wow. There's a name from the past," Marge said. "I read a lot of him my last year at Tisch. My favorite was _The Magus_, but Nigel always loved _Daniel Martin_, because the first chapter is a beautiful description of a young boy's experience harvesting wheat in Devon during the summer of the Battle of Britain. It really is some gorgeous writing, Rachel."

Rachel frowned. "I never really read enough in high school, Marge. There are times in class that I feel like an ignoramus, not knowing who any of these writers are."

"Hun, that's what college is for, too, you know. To expand your horizons. Make sure you read what you can outside of class, as well."

"Marge," Rachel said, "I'm really glad to have met you." Marge smiled and went back to polishing mugs.

About 3AM, Marge was in the back when a young customer came in and sat at the counter, a few seats down from her. He caught her eye because he looked so completely out of place: one of those Mexican surfer hoodies, and Levi's, not your typical late night Manhattan fashion. It was embarrassing to realize he was _really_ good-looking, with an excellent build, longish blonde hair, and beautiful blue eyes. She found herself blushing involuntarily when he gave her a polite smile.

"Nice shoes," he said, and she looked down. He was wearing men's versions of her desert boots.

"Thank you."

"My dad swears by them. He's worn them since he was a kid."

Rachel nodded politely, then returned to her book. She was relieved when Marge emerged.

"Geoff!" she said, "What brings you here? It's not your usual night."

"Hi Marge," he said, sighing. "It's a rough one this time." He yawned, and Marge scurried to get him his coffee. She handed him his mug.

"How's Elena?"

"Not good right now." Geoff said. "She's writing a massive D. H. Lawrence paper, and is exhausted. I tried calming her down, get her to sleep, but Skype just doesn't cut it. So she signed off crying, and now I can't sleep either." He stopped to look at his phone, and looked relieved. "She just texted me—she's going to bed, and thinks she can sleep now. She'll get up in a few hours and work on it later. She says she'll send me a draft tomorrow afternoon."

Rachel couldn't help but overhear; it took all she had to look engrossed in the novel.

"So you guys edit each other's papers too?" Marge shook her head.

He shrugged, with a bashful look. "I'm the only editor she trusts."

"Jesus, hun, you're worse than this one," and Marge pointed to Rachel, who looked up in surprise. Geoff looked confused.

"Geoff Fielding, meet Rachel Berry."

Rachel stood up slowly, outraged. "Marge, what the hell are you doing?"

Marge crossed her arms. "I'm trying to help you two."

"How?" exclaimed Geoff, on his feet, equally outraged. "By setting us up? Are you nuts?"

"Of course not," growled Marge, throwing up her hands, "Jesus, relax." She brought her hands down slowly, and Rachel and Geoff, following her lead, almost on cue, sat down at the same time, mouths slightly open.

"I'm worried about both of you. You're ridiculously hard-working students, far away from the loves of your lives, and suffering from it, not getting enough sleep. The other kids don't relate to your situations, am I right?" Rachel and Geoff nodded, slowly. "Your unique situations are isolating you. All I'm suggesting is, the two of you could actually help the other get through the separation. You both know what it's like, how heart-crushingly lonely it is."

"Is Geoff engaged to Elena?" snapped Rachel, incredulous. When Geoff shook his head, she crossed her arms, and said, "Then our situations aren't the same." Geoff took some time before nodding in agreement.

"But you hurt the same, hun," Marge said gently. Rachel rolled her eyes.

"What, exactly, are you suggesting we do, Marge?" Geoff seemed willing, at least, to hear what Marge had in mind. Rachel looked at him as if he had two heads, but he held up his hand. "Rachel, Marge has been a good friend and counselor to me. I trust her. Can we just hear her out?"

His voice was soft, calming, like Finn's would get when she needed mellowing out. Maybe this Elena was like her; maybe he understood more than she was willing to concede. And she did trust Marge…

"Okay. Let's hear her out." Geoff pulled a "YES!" move, just like Finn did when she won that coin toss against Mercedes. She chuckled openly.

"Look at you two," Marge said. "You're exhausted from all of this academic and relationship crap. All I'm saying is…go outside and play! Not that, Rachel, so you can back off the shocked look. I mean, go to a park tomorrow, throw a Frisbee or something. Talk a little. Have lunch. Compare notes. That's all."

Rachel looked at Geoff. "That does sound like fun. The weather's supposed to be clear. What do you say?"

He shrugged and smiled. "Okay." Marge beamed.

"Right! Now Geoff, first things first. You're going to escort Rachel to her dorm at NYADA—you know where that is, right? Good. And fill each other in on a little stuff beforehand. Get some sleep. And for Christ's sake, just have fun, okay?

They walked back to her dorm, and told each other a little background information, and arranged to meet in Central Park the next morning at 8AM. Rachel stood and watched him walk on to NYU, only a half mile away and felt relieved. Maybe she didn't have to face and understand all of this alone. Marge was a help, but sometimes the views of her peers were more useful. Plus, she had to admit, it would be nice to get a male perspective on things, something she took for granted when she was with Finn. Not the goofy, guy things, necessarily, but the subtly different ways to approach problems that sometimes worked better than the ones she came up with. And without the sexual tension—they were both spoken for. Maybe then she could face just the physical separation a bit better. She grabbed her phone:

_*I love you cuz you have a Y Chromosome, bub*_*


	5. Chapter 5

Rachel managed to get through her Friday vocal classes, dragged back to her dorm, and ate dinner. The dining hall was nothing like the cafeteria at McKinley. It was quiet, pleasantly lit, with excellent food, including a variety of vegetarian (not vegan, however, but she didn't mind) dishes for every meal. The social dynamic, however, made her entire high school experience seem like a horrible dream by comparison. Before joining Glee Club, Rachel had eaten every meal alone. Just contemplating that sad fact now sometimes brought her to tears, mourning for her old self, an outcast so alienated that she couldn't relate to a single soul in the entire school. Joining Glee Club barely helped; they were still harassed by those higher in the food chain.

It couldn't be more different at NYADA. She always had some kind of company: classmates with whom she could discuss work, those who recognized her from the Nationals video and wanted to congratulate her or discuss technical aspects of the performance, and people from her dorm. She had never felt so accepted in her entire life. And she was taking the weekend off. Life actually felt good, despite the fatigue.

Her plan was to read some more of _The French Lieutenant's Woman_ in her dorm's lounge, then go to bed early. She actually looked forward to being in the park tomorrow. She needed a break. About ten pages into the book, her phone buzzed, with a text that warmed her heart:

_*I love you, even when I have to look up what you just sent* _

He was safe, and he loved her; she could relax and sleep for now. The warmth of that feeling carried her twenty more pages into the book. Finally, fatigue set in and she headed to her room, closing the door. This was the worst part of her day now, being alone in bed with just her thoughts. She wanted her lover. Taking advantage of her roommate's absence, Rachel slipped, naked, into bed, huddled on her side, imagining the two of them spooning, feeling _him_, aroused, against her. That would have to do, for now. That would have to be enough to get her through one more night. One more night without him. And, right before falling asleep, she prayed, as she always did now: Let him be kept safe, one more night. Please.

She awoke early, actually refreshed, and showered in an excellent mood. The sky looked clear, and the day would be cool, not cold, so she pulled on a white NYADA long-sleeved t-shirt and her black McKinley gym shorts, putting her hair up in twin braids. White tube knee socks and sneakers completed the ensemble. No makeup. She relished the fact that all she needed to feel was presentable.

Geoff was waiting for her at their agreed meeting place: the south end of the Great Lawn, a huge expanse of open grass, perfect for Frisbee. In fact, she saw him before he saw her: engrossed, watching an athletic border collie performing amazing leaps for a Frisbee thrown by her master. He turned and smiled when she touched his shoulder.

"Hey Rachel!" Geoff was dressed in a gray, long-sleeved t-shirt with the Blind logo, with black board shorts and running shoes. He was holding a neon-green Frisbee.

"I had a skateboard phase when I was in middle school, and Blind is a skateboard manufacturer," he explained before Rachel even asked. "Surfing is much more satisfying." She nodded. They watched the man and his dog for a few more minutes.

"I have a border collie named Molly at home," he said. "She's a great Frisbee dog. I miss her _almost_ as much as Elena". He winked. "Ready to play?" He handed the Frisbee to her. "You first".

Rachel grinned. Finn had been delighted when he found out how good Rachel was with a Frisbee. This was going to be fun. She launched the disc crisply across her body, watching it travel smoothly over the grass, right on target, almost into Geoff's outstretched hand. She liked how he just smiled, with no surprise whatsoever, catching it with ease.

Geoff launched it back immediately, but with a delivery Rachel had never seen before. Instead of starting with the disc parallel to the ground, he launched from his side, holding it perpendicular, with a rolling snap of the wrist. The Frisbee started off sideways, wobbled briefly, then, almost as if by magic, righted itself, on a path straight towards her. It was thrown a little high; she turned her back on it and started running, trying to guess when the Frisbee was going to drop. When she looked over her shoulder, it was dropping almost on top of her, and she gracefully turned her upper body, picking it out of the air. Geoff was hopping up and down, whooping. Rachel held up the Frisbee:

"One of the benefits of having a quarterback for a fiancée," she said, triumphant, "is learning how to catch."

They played for two hours, interspersed with bouts of drinking water they had brought, and watching Rosie, the indefatigable border collie. Eventually, the two of them found a convenient spot to collapse on the grass.

"Most excellent," Geoff pronounced. "I've gotta watch my elevation, though."

"Elena's probably taller than me, and you're just used to her," Rachel said.

"And Molly's jumps are taller than you too," Geoff joked. "So, is this note-comparing time? You know, so we can report back to Marge?"

"It's as good a time as any," she replied. "Why don't you tell me more about you and Elena?"

"Okay…lets see…Well, you're right—she is taller than you, five-ten. Hell, she's taller than me: I'm only five-nine."

Rachel snorted. "Finn's six-three, and I'm only five-two, so even when I'm in heels he towers over me."

"Imagine how I feel when Elena's in heels," he laughed.

"Like at the Prom? " Rachel asked.

Geoff shrugged. "We didn't go."

He didn't look sad, so Rachel pushed: "Why not?"

"Actually, we were set to go the Prom at my school. Elena had her dress and I had the tux rented and everything. Then, a week before the dance, she was riding her bike when a car brushed her, knocking her off. She hit her head on the curb."

Rachel's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh my God!"

"Yeah. Subdural hematoma. She was able to go home, after a few days, but there was no way she could go to the dance. Then we got into a huge fight."

"Over what? "

"Over something stupid," Geoff said, now sounding sad. "Elena wanted me to go the Prom with someone else." Then he laughed, humorlessly. "As if."

Rachel stared at him, but said nothing.

"When I told her I wasn't going without her she started to cry and scream, first blaming herself for ruining it for both of us, then getting furious with me for not going anyway."

"So what happened?"

He smiled at the memory. "She got dressed up, hair, makeup, the works, and laid out on the family couch. It was a great dress, ivory lace,that looked amazing against her tanned skin. Then I showed up with the tux and a corsage, and all our friends dropped by the house and spent some time with us first before heading off to the dance."

Rachel beamed. "That was so gallant, Geoff. Did she forgive you?"

"I guess so," Geoff said, with a mystified look, "Because Elena said she would have been even more furious had I actually gone to the dance with the girl she suggested, Jane Adams. 'That whore', she said."

"Sounds perfectly reasonable to me," Rachel said, tongue-in-cheek. Geoff gave her an exasperated look.

"What was your Prom like?"

"Finn was Prom King and I was Prom Queen," she said shyly. Geoff looked impressed.

"Wow, that sounds awesome."

"Yeah…It sure was."

She told him her whole story, her life, her dreams, the love of her life, and the strange circumstances by which she ended up here, alone. He, in turn, told her about his and Elena's strange bond, and how they went surfing the day before he left, and how everyone was convinced it wouldn't last, couldn't last. Everyone, it seemed, except Elena and Geoff themselves.

Later, at lunch near the NYU dorms, they shared their coping mechanisms. By this time, Rachel trusted Geoff enough to admit to him that one of the hardest things was the lack of physical intimacy, and that she hadn't found a way to fully cope. Geoff told her he and Elena had given up on trying to get release via Skype.

"It creeps us out", he said, shrugging his shoulders. "It's easier just writing each other smut."

Rachel giggled. "You write _smut_ to each other? "

"Okay, call it erotica, if you will. It helps, a little bit.. Writing it, especially, because it more actively involves the imagination."

She looked at him. "Whose idea was this? "

"Elena's, actually. One of her favorite writers, Anais Nin, wrote erotica professionally for awhile, in Paris during the nineteen-twenties. There's a famous collection of Nin's erotica, _Delta of Venus, _that's still in print_. _You can order it cheap on Amazon. I'd lend you my copy_, _but…" he blushed suddenly, "…Elena kinda personalized it for me".

"I can't write well enough to do that," Rachel lamented.

Geoff gave her a soft, understanding look. "It doesn't have to be Shakespeare, Rachel, to get the job done. You could even just write it for yourself. Like I said, writing it can be more fun than actually reading it."

He paused then, with a faraway look. "Nothing really works completely, though, especially late at night. Then, the only cure would be having Elena in my arms again."

"Humans need physical contact," Rachel agreed. "And scent. I used to steal Finn's t-shirts and keep them for a week or so, because I love how he smells." She suddenly grabbed Geoff's arm, brought it to her nose, then shook her head. "You have a nice scent, Geoff, clean and simple, but nothing like Finn's. Nobody smells like him. I brought one of his shirts back to school, sealed in a plastic bag; I take it out and cuddle with it sometimes. And I can't believe I just told you that."

"Elena says she loves how I taste," Geoff said, dreamily.

"Oh, taste, definitely."

The conversation tapered off, each lost in thoughts of somebody else. Yet, Rachel felt better somehow. Marge was right. Nobody else understood.

Geoff suddenly grabbed for his phone, and smiled. "She's done with the draft earlier than she thought," he said, happily.

"Then I'll let you get to work, " Rachel said. "Thanks so much for this. It really helped."

"It helped me too, Rachel."

"Want to meet again next Saturday for Frisbee?."

"Sure, it was a blast"

As she walked back to her dorm, Rachel thought about writing erotica. But first things first:

_*My Delta of Venus loves you, baby, big time* _

She wished she could see his face when he looked _that_ up.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Lyrics are from the song "The Boxer", by Paul Simon.**

Rachel knew she'd meet up with Santana eventually. Kurt told her that everyone thought she would blow all the money on an expensive apartment and parties and end up working on a pole. When Rachel protested she heard Kurt snort on the phone:

"Don't tell me you didn't think it, Rachel," Kurt giggled, and she laughed with him, because it was sort of true.

Rachel also knew Santana was smarter than that, and she would contact her when the time was right. In the meantime, things were going better. She wouldn't say good, because her coping methods with Finn's physical absence weren't working well, and she still got bouts of insomnia. The Frisbee sessions with Geoff, and then with other NYADA/NYU friends who joined them helped with the exhaustion—she and Geoff were able to take their minds off school and their respective lovers just enough to get the work done without breaking down. But, as he admitted to her at the diner one night, he was missing Elena more and more.

"It's getting bad," he said, shaking his head, "For both of us."

Marge was sympathetic. "Hun, are you sure you can't make it until Thanksgiving? You are seeing her then, right?"

"Marge, I'm so crazy I don't know if I can make it til tomorrow." Rachel could feel the misery weighing him down. She also felt a twinge of envy; at least Geoff and Elena would be meeting over Thanksgiving.

"Hun, I know this is a delicate matter, but have you, um, considered the nuclear option?" She mouthed "prostitute" to Rachel when Geoff was looking away. What surprised Rachel was that she wasn't as shocked by that kind of a proposal as she would have been only two months ago. She knew the pain of loneliness only too well.

"What's that?" Geoff muttered irritably.

Rachel motioned to Marge to let her step in, and she did, the only way she knew how. She began singing a verse from a beautiful song, one of the best ever written:

_Asking only workman's wages  
I come looking for a job  
But I get no offers,  
Just a come-on from the whores on Seventh Avenue  
I do declare, there were times when I was so lonesome  
I took some comfort there  
_

And she hung her head, because she couldn't stand to see him—anyone- this way.

Geoff looked up slowly. His mouth hung open as the realization hit. "You both think I should hire a…_prostitute_? Are you fucking serious?"

Rachel shot Marge an angry "Now what?" glance, then joined her in looking as apologetic as possible.

He facepalmed. Shook his head. "I can't believe this." Then, when the two women couldn't feel any worse, Geoff started to laugh. Not a giggle. Not a chortle, or a guffaw. A solid, prolonged, belly laugh. He laughed till he cried. And he started howling when Rachel muttered, "It wasn't THAT funny." Finally, he stopped, wiping his eyes.

"Are you finished, hun?" Marge asked icily.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm done." He was out of breath. "I'm sorry. But think about it. Rachel, could you imagine hiring yourself a gigolo?"

"No," said a voice behind them, a dark, woman's voice, "Because she knows I'd cut off her balls and lend them to her fiancée." Marge laughed, as Rachel and Geoff turned around. A gorgeous Latina woman lounged in the door, dressed in a long red woolen coat and heels. Geoff started to get angry, but Rachel jumped up and gathered the woman in a huge hug.

"Santana!"

"Hey Berry," Santana said, and sat next to Rachel. "You must be Marge. Rachel's roommate told me about you. Hi, I'm Santana Lopez." She took off her coat, revealing a red silk shirt and dark skinny jeans. "And you're that Geoff guy from NYU, the surfer dude with the surfer _girlfriend._"

Geoff relaxed. "That's me. Pleased to meet you, Santana."

"So, what are you doing here?" Rachel asked, beaming.

"Well," Santana said, "(That's coffee, two sugars, Marge, thanks for asking), I've been tasked to give you a message from Finn, who thought you might like to receive it from me instead of your normal boring sextagrams. It's in some weird language. Do you mind if the others listen to it? "

There was a time when Rachel would have been paranoid, but she trusted Santana now, and Marge and Geoff, so she shook her head. " Go right ahead."

Santana took out a piece of paper. "Frankenteen says he loves you, and his _vas deferens_ really digs your Delta of Venus."

For a second Rachel regretted that decision, because both Marge and Geoff began howling with laughter. But she knew they weren't being mean, just as she knew Santana's humor wasn't meant to be mean, especially with her. And it was pretty funny. She laughed easily when Santana added, "This is actually pretty good, considering it came from a man who once thought the highest humor was sending texts to my girl Berry consisting of puns about her boobs."

Santana filled Rachel (and the others) in on her life. She had actually rented a fairly inexpensive apartment in Williamsburg and spent a little money making it nice. And she had a job as a barista in a coffee place near the apartment, so as not to drain her seed money unnecessarily. And she was looking at singing jobs when she could.

"Santana can sing," Rachel said proudly, "She was Anita to my Maria in _West Side Story_ , and killed the role. And she also rocks Amy Winehouse and Adele like nobody's business."

Eventually Santana put and end to the festivities. "Berry, you have class in the afternoon and need your diva-sleep. Spicoli, you're coming with us . I splurged on a car tonight so we'll drop you off at your dorm. Marge—" she handed Marge a bill for the coffee—" It was a pleasure." Rachel and Geoff went outside, and Santana rushed back into the diner. " Be right back-I gave her a twenty for a tip, dammit!" Marge looked down in her hand; Santana simply slipped her a yellow piece of paper and winked.

Santana sat between Geoff and Rachel in the car. "Keanu, let me see a picture of your surfer girlfriend. She goes to Berkeley, right?"

"Yep," Geoff said, and produced it. "Damn," Santana said, "Elena definitely traded down for you, didn't she?"

"Don't be mean, Lopez," Rachel growled, but smiled when Geoff agreed with the assessment wholeheartedly.

"Take good care of her, dude, or whatever the surfer term you use is these days," Santana said as he got out of the car.

"It was very nice meeting you," Geoff said warmly, "Good night, Rachel". Rachel waved.

"Berry," Santana said as they pulled away, "What the hell is it with you and hot men? "

Rachel gave her a mysterious look. "Yeah, he is good-looking. But he and Elena are more than pretty surfers. They're both serious writers. And they have a tether that makes Finn and mine look like spaghetti."

"That's high praise, coming from you," Santana said. "You like him, I can see that."

"I know where you're going," Rachel said, suddenly weary. "This is no Harry Met Sally situation. But I do envy Geoff in that he knows what his Elena is doing with her life. Do you know they edit each other's writing assignments? You know how Finn and I used to work together on duets and performances." She crossed her arms and leaned back. "Now I don't even get to fuck my lover anymore, let alone make music with him."

"He misses you, too, Rachel." Santana said softly. "And I can't tell you what he's doing, so you can maintain your texting rules, but I can tell you he's doing good things, just like you are. You'll meet again, I know it. And you'll like each other better when it's all said and done."

"That's what I feel in my bones," Rachel said, "But that doesn't keep the other side of the bed warm."

"Look, there's your dorm, so I'll make it quick. Have dinner with me tomorrow night. Get some diva sleep .Dress nice. We'll talk some more. I'll fill you in on Brit and Quinn."

Rachel hugged her friend. "That'll be great! See you Saturday night!"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The weather was still nice for Frisbee on Saturday morning, but Geoff and Rachel were the only ones to show up. They had a rule: Frisbee first, then lunch to talk. Rachel found the physical activity pleasantly very different from the elliptical at the student rec center and dance practice. And she enjoyed the fresh air, and the fact that her height and sex played no factor in the activity. They were both just very good at Frisbee. They ended up playing solidly for three hours, then had lunch at this burger place near Geoff's dorm. It served a wonderful grilled Portobello mushroom burger that Rachel adored; Geoff ordered a lamb gyro. "I'm a sucker for _tzadziki_ sauce," he said, "Which is funny, because I hate raw cucumbers, especially in salads—I guess their strong flavor overwhelms everything else for me."

He admitted feeling very weary, but this weekend was good because Elena was editing something of his this time, a paper that he sent her the day before. Rachel studied his face. The once-deep tan had faded, and his hair was taking on just a classic blonde color, rather than that surfer bleached look. His very blue eyes looked deeply tired though. She thought about Santana's remark and looked closer as they talked. Geoff was very good-looking. He had an intelligent, kind face, and was compact and slender, with a powerful surfer's build. But Rachel preferred the way Finn's dark hair and eyes set off his fair skin, and despite all the jokes about their height difference, she secretly enjoyed how Finn could just envelop her whole body with his strong frame. And she loved the way he looked at her. He wasn't goofy; he never leered. Whenever she came into his sight, he looked calm and happy, as if she had made his entire day. His looks could also be intense, scarily so; the smoky glance he gave her while dancing with Quinn as she sang at the junior prom still made her knees go weak. Geoff didn't look at her those ways. He saved those for talking about Elena, like he was doing now.

He was telling Rachel about a young dolphin that adopted him and Elena when they surfed off Hermosa Beach one summer. It would circle them and leap about as they sat on their boards, waiting for waves. And it was always waiting for them at their usual time, early in the morning.

"Elena once slipped off her board into the water, to swim with him for a brief time. But he seemed to prefer to just poke his head out of the water and snicker at us, and then swim in circles, leaping every now and then."

Rachel was enchanted by the story. "Did you know it was a male? I've never been able to tell the sexes apart, looking at pictures."

"Elena noticed during the swim. Apparently juvenile males will sometimes get aroused around humans, and his junk became _very _noticeable. She got back on her board with this shocked, excited look on her face, saying, 'He's got a big ole _erection,_ Geoff!'" He laughed, and then Rachel saw a change, something almost beatific, come over his face. This memory was precious, sacred somehow. She didn't interrupt.

"I remember her straddling her board, showing me how big with her hands outstretched. The usual summer morning layer of clouds had burned off, so Elena was bobbing up and down in the gentle swell, in a wetsuit, with sunlight glittering all around her, off the clean green water and her wet hair, and her smile, with white teeth shining out of her tanned face and her eyes flashing naughtily, and she was kind of giggling, and I was laughing, because we were just fifteen and didn't know anything useful about sex. I had never seen a girl as beautiful as her, at that moment, in my entire life." He paused, a catch in his throat.

"Every time I see her; every time I touch her; every time I hear her; every time I smell her; every time I even read something that she's written; I feel an element of that moment. That's why being apart is killing me."

Rachel worried about him.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Damn, Berry, you clean up nice." Rachel grinned. Santana looked her over approvingly: short, little black dress and a nice pair of black pumps. Hair down around her shoulders, wavy, no bangs. Smoky evening makeup. Star necklace. "I half expected you to be wearing those insane knee socks."

Santana was dressed similarly, only in gray. The restaurant was Italian, with vegan choices. Santana ordered lasagna; Rachel, the tofu manicotti. They shared a bottle of chianti.

"So tell me about Brittany," Rachel said.

"She's on track to graduate, believe it or not. And then she's moving in with me. And Kurt you know about. He and Blaine will be applying to several schools here. And they want to live with you, Rachel. I know you aren't sure, but please give it a chance."

"I'll think about it, but right now things are going well as it is. The dorms are actually nice and, except for missing Finn, I'm getting work done. Carmen meets with me once a month. We've had two meetings, now, and she's pleased with my progress. She was surprised, though, when I told her I wasn't looking to be in the freshman musical."

Santana got up to feel Rachel's forehead. "What? Are you ill?"

"No. I told her I wanted this year to work on my basics, fill in gaps in my training, so when I went for the sophomore musical, I'd kill it. My dancing isn't up to where I'd like it, and my acting can always use work. I told her I wanted to be a _legitimate_ triple threat."

"You go, girl! What did the old bag say?"

Rachel grinned wickedly. "Nothing, at first. Then this slow, but very small smile came over her face. She said, 'You'd be surprised how few students here have the self-awareness to soberly assess their deficiencies and plan accordingly on their own. I wasn't sure about you, at first, and thought I might have to guide your progress more firmly. But I'm beginning to pat myself on the back for accepting you.'"

Santana got up, walked around and hugged Rachel warmly, then went back to her seat. "You know, Berry, in high school we knew you worked hard—well, some of us did, anyway. And your self-confidence was grating because we didn't know if what you were saying was necessary to succeed wasn't just stuff you read in some Cosmopolitan in middle school. Sure, you blew most of us away when it came to singing, but all we had was a bunch of high school show choirs and ourselves to compare you to." Rachel blushed.

"But if Carmen fucking Thibideaux is impressed already, girl, I want to get in line now for front row tickets for me and Brit to your Broadway debut."

Her honesty touched Rachel deeply.

"Thanks, Santana, that means the world to me."

"It better, because I have a favor to ask."

"Of course."

Santana looked at her with a softness in her demeanor that Rachel had never seen before. "This summer, if you have time, I'd like to work with you on some of my basics. I'll come to Lima, if that's where you'll be. I-I know this is late coming, Rachel, but you are an inspiration to me. I know I'm getting a late start, but your ethic has proven to be the model. I want to be great, like you're going to be. Maybe we can take this town by storm."

"I'd be honored, Santana," Rachel said, deeply moved. "When my plans solidify, we'll figure it out. I trust you're looking at classes now as well?"

"Yep", Santana said, relieved. "But I think master classes from you will give me that extra edge."

Rachel raised her glass. "To us taking this town by storm," she toasted. They clinked glasses.

Santana went on to say that Quinn was doing well at Yale, and that she would organize a get together in New York later on in the year.

Eventually, the conversation came to Finn.

"I have to admit, Rachel," Santana said, digging into dessert, a tiramisu for two that she talked Rachel into, even though it wasn't vegan, "I was upset at how Finn pulled that switcheroo on you. I mean, you must think that wedding dress is cursed by now."

"Third times the charm," Rachel said drily, then gave an "Oh My God!" look when she tasted the dessert. "But I know what all of that cost him. And he was right, bless his heart, which is always, unerringly, in the right place. It was the wrong time to get married. We may have been made for each other, but I think we also have to deserve each other as well. And part of that is both of us reaching for our dreams on our own first. Which he was trying to tell me, in his own inimitable way." Then she grew sad.

"You know, there are times I wish I had taken your advice, and not had sex with Finn yet. Then I wouldn't dream about getting my ashes hauled in the middle of dance class."

Santana laughed. "God, you have changed. For the better, I might add." Rachel grinned. "But what about Marge and this Geoff guy. Are they helping you cope?"

"Oh yeah. Marge is amazing. She went to Tisch. Was an actress. Had an epic romance with a dashing NYU professor, only to lose him to cancer. She keeps me sane. In fact, she introduced me to Geoff, thinking we could help each other through our separations. But Geoff, man…he's not doing well. I thought I had an epic love for Finn. His and Elena's may end up in fairy tales told to our kids."

"So, this Elena. Is she worth it? Is she suffering too?"

Rachel nodded. "I haven't met her, but she seems to be as sweet and kind and impossibly in love with Geoff as well. He showed me an (edited) email she sent him, and I cried my eyes out. They're both aspiring writers, and they even tried writing erotica to each other to tide them over."

"Wow." Santana looked thoughtful. "Say, I have an idea. I'm throwing a little party at my place on Friday. Mostly work folks. I'd just invite you, but frankly, a woman alone at a party with an engagement ring on fools nobody. Bring Geoff, you can be each other's beards! Man, I crack me up."

At first Rachel hesitated. But the more she thought about it, the better it sounded. "Okay, I'll ask him. We can always leave if it gets too uncomfortable."

"Good," Santana said. "It's settled. Besides, I'll be your chaperone."

"Very funny."

Late that night, Rachel sent a text:

_*My epic love for you is getting me through tonight* _


	7. Chapter 7

Rachel was starting to think about what to wear for the party that night. She was glad Geoff had, after some resistance, agreed to go along a few days ago. In fact, he began to see the sly humor in it. "Come on, Geoff,"Rachel had said, "Santana is right-if I show up alone, every horndog in the place will think I'm just faking it with the engagement ring and will consider hitting on me a personal challenge."

"Well, we can't have that," he said. "But we're going to be dignified. No lovey-dovey crap, because…" And he drifted for a moment.

Rachel touched his arm. "No, Geoff, of course." He smiled gratefully. She could see things weren't well with him.

She had decided on a simple blue dress of (relatively) conservative length when her phone buzzed. It was Geoff, but he sounded strange, voice somewhat slurred. He said he wouldn't be able to go after all, that something had come up. She could have sworn he sounded like he was crying. Then he hung up.

What could have happened? Had Elena broken up with him? That sounded impossible, but then, Rachel was living proof unthinkable things happen. She sat on her bed, wondering what to do.

Finn once told Rachel she had the biggest heart of anyone he knew, which surprised her. She had always seen herself as spoiled and self-centered, and for most of her life hadn't cared. She even told Finn once she was only generous if there was something in it for her. They had talked about it again the summer they got back together, lounging in a hammock one steamy August afternoon. Finn wanted to show her how she was wrong about such a negative self-assessment, ticking off instance after instance where she had been unselfish and kind.

"All of which means, Finn Hudson," she said dreamily, stretched next to him, "that I am a just a complicated woman."

"Who I _simply _adore," he replied, kissing her.

Her instinct was to rush over and help. But if she had learned anything in the last few years, it was not to fall prey to her impetuousness. But this was different. It wasn't about her. It was about a friend in agony over something, and Rachel didn't know how she could live with herself if she didn't try to help.

So she pulled her white NYADA sweatshirt over her jeans and headed out the door, calling Santana on the way, filling her in.

"Rachel," Santana said, " Just make sure… " She paused, as if questioning the wisdom of what Rachel was about to do. But that passed, and her voice was filled with a newfound trust in her friend. She simply finished, "Do what you can. I'll check with you later, okay?"

His room was on the third floor; that was the only thing she knew. But there was no need to ask anyone what room was his: one had a sticker with an image of a post horn, the same image Geoff had on a t-shirt he wore once, which he explained was an obscure Thomas Pynchon reference. The door was ajar.

Geoff had mentioned his room was a single, despite the fact he was a freshman. She wondered how he ever wrangled that. She pushed the door open slightly and peered in as she knocked. One was immediately struck by its spare neatness, except for the bed, which hadn't been made, and books lying about in what looked like haphazard stacks. The desk, with his laptop, was orderly, and a little nightstand by the bed had a lamp, a framed picture of Elena (maybe a good sign) and his beloved copy of _Against the Day_ on it. He was in a small chair by the window, in cargo shorts and a white King Crimson t-shirt, with a pint bottle of Wild Turkey in his hand. He looked up at her soft knock.

"What are you doing here?" His voice was nasal, only somewhat slurred; eyes, red-rimmed and miserable.

Rachel slipped into the room and closed the door behind her.

"You sounded upset on the phone. I had to come over and see if I could help."

"I don't think you can."

"Is it Elena?"

He looked at her suspiciously for a moment, then sighed.

"Take a look for yourself." He wearily waved to some papers on the bed.

Rachel sat carefully on the end and picked them up. They were an email from Elena he had printed out, and apparently read and re-read several times.

"Are you sure you don't want to edit it first, Geoff?" she asked. He shook his head.

_My Dearest Geoff,_

_I have finally found MY SPOT. It's funny, you know, the first weeks I was here were spent diving into work, trying, through sheer will power, to stave off the inevitable realization of having to be without you. So I spent a lot of time in the rather drab but useful Moffit Undergraduate Library, because that was where professors leave readings and other assignments for classes. That's where I was this afternoon, but I was missing you so badly I couldn't concentrate, so I left. _

_It was close to sunset, and for some reason I found myself outside the University's main Doe Library instead: an enormous, elegant, century-old structure. I went inside, to try and shake off the feeling that I was fading away, because the longer we're apart, the more I feel pale and translucent, like rice paper. _

_Anyway, I wandered around and entered the North Reading Room. It's this large room with an arched ceiling and dark, polished-wood tables and chairs with brass reading lamps, and windows, lots of windows, including an arched panel of glass at one end. And Geoff, I wish to God you could have been here, because this huge, ornate, quiet room was filled for a few minutes with soft, orange-red light. The few people in the room were mere silhouettes while the angle was right as the sunset streamed in, and I took this as a sign. _

_You see, baby, I was thinking of that conversation you mentioned having with your friend Rachel, about our dolphin and how you would always hold that image of me in your heart. I have my own image, you know, one that I go to when it's darkest for me here. Do you remember last summer when you got us invited to the beach party in Lunada Bay? That was one of the best surfing days of my life; how you sweet-talked those locals into letting us surf there without getting our asses kicked, I'll never know. Right after sunset, I went back to our cooler to get another of our beers (I don't know why surfers love that crap Corona, either), and when I returned, everyone but you had gotten up from the fire. They were all silhouetted by the fading sky, looking like ghost images painted on some cave wall, but you—oh, you- were illuminated by the fire, looking right at me. Your hair was windblown, but to me it looked as it does after we've made love and my fingers have had their way with it. And you had that scraggly beard that I told you I hated, but now wish you hadn't shaved, because I miss picking up my scent on it when you kiss me after having been down amongst my thighs. Your eyes, usually so honest-blue, reflected the orange fire, and, if I had been close enough, would have seen a tiny image of me held in each. Because I was all you could see. We'd known each other for over four years by then, you knew every inch of my body, and I was only gone for a minute, yet, when you looked up, it was like you were seeing the most important thing in your world for the very first time. And she made you glad. _

_That's the image, Geoff, which I go to when I feel like I need to be brought back from completely fading away; I go to it a lot these days. It's the one I cherish most, because it tells me what I mean to you. And I want to always mean that to you. It will be the last image on my mind when I pass from this world. _

_So, like I said, I have found my spot. Because this room at sunset jump-starts that image inside my heart, where I can be together with you again, if only for some nanosecond before my brain pitilessly reminds me it's a memory. Maybe I can stave off disappearing before Thanksgiving. I just don't know if I can. _

_I'm sorry this is so sad, baby. I'm tempted, sometimes, not to tell you when I feel this way, because I know how hard it has been for you lately as well. However, I can see you reading a sanitized email and just calling bullshit, because we could never hide anything from each other. _

_Well, damn it. I'm determined to end on a better note. So I'll focus on Thanksgiving, okay? Good news! Tony's getting my dad's old classic woody ready for us the morning after we get into LA. Our boards will be freshly waxed and everything, up on the rack. Best. Brother. Ever. I was thinking we can use it for our wedding limo someday. Cool idea, right? _

_If you were wondering where that last idea came from, I was just thinking about Rachel and her almost-weddings. She must have some immense inner strength, that's all I can say. My heart goes out to her; I hope she gets to be with her Finn soon, because they sound like you and me. Maybe Rachel and I should get together and commiserate over being "tethered" to the last two good guys left in this love-forsaken world. _

_Okay, Joanne's here (she says "hi!"). We missed trough-time at the dorm, so we'll probably mosey over to Top Dog—eat yer heart out, dude—and then try to sleep. I hope to send you my notes on your paper tomorrow afternoon, baby (it was magnificent work, as always). Please get more rest, Geoff. Please. I miss you. And love you._

_As ever,_

_Elena _

Rachel didn't expect to be so moved; the other letter she had read of Elena's didn't have the impact of this. She was fighting back tears by the time she reached the end. It was a relief, she had to admit, that it wasn't a breakup letter. But the sweet sadness that permeated it broke her heart. Judging by Geoff's face, it must have broken his as well.

"It's a beautiful letter, Geoff," she said quietly, not sure what to do yet.

"I told you she was a better writer than me." His fierce pride in Elena, even as his heart was breaking made her think of Finn at that moment.

"I can't let her suffer like this," Geoff said. He took a swig from the bottle and sagged in the chair. "Maybe I should just drop out and go back to California."

"No, Geoff. What you need is some solid rest. You're at the end of your rope, and the bourbon isn't helping. Passing out and waking up with a hangover isn't the solution."

He looked at her, somewhat unsteadily. "What can I do?" he asked in despair.

She made her decision. Getting up, she walked over to his chair and hugged his shoulders. "You need to go to sleep, Geoff. And we both know why neither of us has been sleeping well."

His eyes grew wide, but Rachel calmed him with a gentle smile. "No, it's not sex. That we reserve for our respective lovers. But we're humans, Geoff, social creatures, who need physical contact to stay healthy. You just can't sleep alone for one more night. Your whole decision-making process is out of wack. I'm surprised you haven't started seeing things. Hopefully, one prolonged night of rest may help put it back, okay?"

"So…we're going to sleep together? Is that it? " She nodded. He looked drunkenly dubious.

"What about Finn and Elena? What if they find out? " he was whispering now.

"I'm going to tell Finn," Rachel said. "He set me free. He also said if we were meant to be together, then we would be together. One of the consequences of freedom is being able to make one's own decisions about one's humanity. If I help a suffering friend, only out of desire to ease that suffering, and he can't get past that, then he cannot love me the way I deserve; then we aren't meant to be together."

"You'd risk that for me?"

"It's not situational, Geoff. If he didn't love me as I deserve, I'd find out some other way, believe me."

Geoff began to sag; the alcohol was taking a toll. "I love Elena, and she loves me. She'll understand, I know it. I'll tell her. I'm just so tired… "

Rachel got up. "I have to go to the bathroom. Are you going to be okay while I'm gone?" He nodded.

She got up and went into the hall, and saw the bathroom facility. Once inside, she looked at herself in the mirror. Somebody different looked back at her. Not the girl who made panicked decisions when under stress. The Rachel Berry she saw was calm and confident, much like her performing persona. She was merging the two, finally, after all these years. She felt like she was growing up, even if it meant dragging along some people not ready to deal with that yet. The girl in the mirror received a high five.

She called Santana, and blurted out what she was going to do, wincing in advance from the expected Lima-Heights response. Instead, her friend simply said, "Rachel, I said you had changed for the better; I meant it. Sleep well, girl. And I _do _mean just sleep."

Back in the room, Geoff had gotten undressed and in bed. Judging by the clothes on the chair, Rachel, relieved, noted he kept his boxers on. He was still awake.

"Do you have a T-shirt I can borrow? " Rachel asked.

"Sure, pick any one in the second drawer."

She walked over and rummaged; settling, with a smile, on a Journey shirt. She showed it to him; he nodded approvingly, saying, "It was my dad's." Geoff turned away politely as she slipped out of her clothes, leaving only her pink satin panties, and slipped the shirt over her head. It wasn't as enormous as Finn's shirts were, and didn't smell like him, but she still enjoyed the comfort.

"Do you have any aspirin?" She found the bottle he indicated, and took a bottle of water from his little refrigerator. "Take the asprins and drink this," she said, and took another bottle for herself.

It was delightful to feel the bed already warm for her entry.

They faced each other for a few seconds. Strangely, the awkwardness and tension vanished, and he kissed her forehead.

"Thanks, Rachel; I feel more relaxed already."

She smiled. "Good night, Geoff".

Even though it was only late afternoon, they both fell asleep almost immediately. Just before Rachel went under, she saw the image _she_ wanted to see for the rest of her life. It was backstage at that first Regionals, Finn smiling after saying he loved her for the first time. She cherished the excitement and innocence of that look. She wanted to mean that much to him for the rest of her days.

XXXXXXXXX

She awoke twelve hours later, feeling better than she had for months. Rachel chuckled softly; Geoff's hand had somehow slipped inside her shirt, and, since he was spooned against her back, she could feel his morning arousal against her. But he was out like a light still, his breathing deep and regular. She got up without waking him, and gently touched Elena's picture. "Good luck," she whispered, and got dressed.

Outside on the street, Rachel turned towards her dorm when the window of a towncar, parked at the curb, rolled down, and a hand with a phone camera emerged and clicked a picture of her. Startled, Rachel ran up angrily.

"Good morning, Berry!" It was Santana. She opened the door and beckoned Rachel to enter. There was an enormous pastry on a napkin in her lap, and a huge coffee in the cupholder. "Fritter?" Rachel giggled and pulled a huge piece off; she was ravenous.

"Do you realize how much money I can get from Jacob Ben-Israel for a picture of Rachel Berry taking the Walk of Shame, sex hair and all?"

Rachel nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, I can see that. Maybe I can use this experience to better deal with my future paparazzi. "

"That's my girl," Santana said approvingly. "How's Keanu?"

"Still asleep. I honestly doubt he's had an unbroken night since he's been here. And Elena isn't in much better shape. But man, those two love the hell out of each other."

"You'd know all about that," Santana said, and they drove off.


	8. Chapter 8

Elena Bosaic was in her spot, thinking about Thanksgiving. In a few minutes the angle would be just right, and the beautiful San Francisco Bay sunset would begin streaming in, filling the North Reading Room , and connecting her with Geoff, if but for a moment. But now she had time to just sit and daydream.

Thanksgiving was only three weeks away, which her roommate Joanne kept telling her was just around the corner, but might as well be an eternity as far as Elena was concerned. She remembered a story about Albert Einstein, who was once asked by a reporter to describe his Theory of Relativity. According to the story, Einstein said:

"A young man sits next to a pretty girl on a park bench for an hour, and it seems like a second. The same young man sits on a hot stove for a second and it seems like an hour. That's Relativity."

Elena knew all about that hot stove.

The Thanksgiving break would finally give them a chance to recharge, she hoped. Neither, frankly, had anticipated the separation being so hard. Indeed, being separated was only in the Plan B scenario: both had hoped to be accepted to Berkeley and live happily ever after. Elena remembered arguing with Geoff when he didn't get in, forcefully talking him out of just going to a community college in the Bay Area to be near her.

"To hell with that noise, Geoff," she yelled. "NYU is too good to turn down. We'll figure it out."

She started to question that advice, especially when it became apparent that the separation was taking a toll on Geoff's health.

And then there was his weird request for a Skype session a few days ago.

Geoff didn't say why he wanted it, so Elena just assumed he had gotten to the point of desperation and was willing to try some cybersex again, the prospect of which, to be honest, actually sounded pretty good to her. Creepiness bedamned, she thought. Joanne agreed to make herself scarce, and Elena got ready, which was easy: some minimal eye makeup, lip gloss, and she was done. Geoff loved how she took care of her hair and skin; no leathery-surfer looks for her. He was fond of telling her she looked like a more beautiful version of Lani Doherty, to which she outwardly scoffed, but inwardly adored him for saying.

Elena settled, crosslegged on her bed, naked, with her laptop as the connection came up. She felt the usual heart-racing as his image appeared.

"Hey baby," she said, in a sultry tone, then realized he was fully clothed, sitting at his desk.

"Uh…hi." He seemed taken aback.

"Just…'hi'? " She arched her eyebrows, and placed her arms across her chest. Somebody got their wires crossed, it seemed. "Um, should I get dressed or something?"

"Never, baby," Geoff said, sexily. That was a good sign, she thought, then noticed how relaxed he looked. She brought her face closer to the camera, giving the impression she was studying him very carefully.

"Geoff, baby, have you actually been getting some sleep?"

He gave her a grin, and nodded. She clapped her hands.

"Oh my God, that's great! How did you do it?"

"Well…that's what I wanted to talk about," he replied. It was then that Elena detected a tinge of anxiety emanating from him.

If it had been anybody else, Elena would have been suspicious. But she had known this boy since she was thirteen-years-old, and loved him almost that long. If she was absolutely sure about anything, it was that her Geoff was incapable of guile around her. All through middle school and high school, her friends kept telling her to prepare for the other shoe to drop with him, especially since he didn't even attend her school. But, to everyone's surprise but hers, he had never, in all that time, ever given her a reason not to trust him. Geoff was the only human being Elena ever gave the benefit of the doubt one-hundred percent of the time. He didn't look guilty anyway, just anxious. So she was content to remain sitting crosslegged, naked, and listen to his explanation.

Okay," she said calmly. "Shoot."

He took a deep breath, and told her about his bad reaction to her email, and how Rachel had come over, concerned how he sounded on the phone when he bowed out of going to the party.

"So, basically, " Elena summarized out loud, "Rachel was concerned about your state of mind, and came over. Right?"

"Right. She said I needed to lay off the booze if I wanted to get some decent rest."

"Did she read my letter?"

He wore a pained expression, nodded. "Baby, I neglected to edit it beforehand. I'm really sorry."

That hurt a little bit. The thought of another woman reading some of her most intimate thoughts wasn't exactly pleasant. On the other hand, Elena wasn't ashamed of how she felt about Geoff. He looked truly upset with himself, and honestly contrite. Elena decided not to make an issue of it.

"I see. Go on."

"She said I needed a long, uninterrupted sleep."

"Sounds like a good diagnosis."

"It was, but Elena, this is where it got a bit…unusual." Oh God. Elena could see he was blushing and licking his lips nervously. What the hell happened? She stayed calm, just nodded for him to continue. She kept her arms crossed.

"Rachel said the reason neither of us had been sleeping well was that we were sleeping alone." Hmmm.

"So what did she propose? That you two sleep together?" Bingo. She saw him mentally cross a Rubicon.

"Yes."

Despite her certainty about him, Elena felt her mouth go dry. "And did you?"

"Yes." Oh wow. All of those times she had told her friends that Geoff was one of the good guys came back to her at that moment. Elena found herself strangely calm, though. There was no sign of remorse or regret in his face. And he was her Geoff. She knew him. He was certainly no Jekyl and Hyde. So she was going to give him the benefit of every doubt.

"Define 'sleep together'."

He sat for a moment, studying her face. The dryness in her mouth got worse.

"I slept with Rachel, Elena." She closed her eyes. "In the literal sense. With clothes on. Fourteen hours for me. I'm not sure about her; she left before I woke up."

Relief washed over her, even though she told herself there had been nothing to worry about. She felt a flash of envy for Rachel having been so close to him while she was here, alone, on an opposite coast. There was even a touch of gratitude for what Rachel did. Her mouth became moist again. She remained silent, deadpan, for a few seconds, as the tension drained. He started to look anxious again. Then she spoke.

"Did she bring her jammies with her, or did you have to lend her something? " She was having trouble not giggling now.

"I lent her a t-shirt." Geoff, in his anxiety, had, endearingly, missed her change in mood.

"Not mine, I hope."

Slowly, it began to dawn on him. He gave her the most adoring look.

"No, baby. Nobody wears that but you. She picked one out of my drawer. Dad's old Journey shirt."

She thought for a moment.

"You understand this is a one time thing, right? "

Geoff laughed. "I'll say. We agreed on that the next day."

"Well," she said, "That certainly wasn't what I expected to talk about tonight."

"I'm sorry." He gave her a rueful grin. " I know you've been having a hard time. And it kills me. "

Elena reached out her hand.

"God I miss you," she said. "Thanksgiving seems so far away."

She managed to talk him out of his clothes, and they brought each other some relief that night. But she knew it was going to take everything she had to make it to Thanksgiving.

Sunset finally arrived. Elena loved how the whole room became even quieter than usual. Each person seemed to embrace the spectacular effect the sunset produced here. She waited, breathless, and then, as if in a flash, she was with him again at that beach in Lunada Bay. It was just long enough for her autonomic responses to kick in; her body joined her mind in a sudden rush of emotion. She wondered if that overwhelming sweep of emotion and sensation was what it must be like to mainline heroin.

And then the feeling was gone. Elena was, once again, bereft. Now she was just a blonde girl, sitting alone in a library, wringing a memory for any and every scintilla of solace it could give her broken heart. She began crying quietly, wondering how she was ever going to make it through the next three weeks.

She barely looked up when a tall woman sat down at the table, opposite her.

"Elena Bosaic?" the woman asked, in a low voice. Elena looked up, dabbing her eyes.

"Yes."

"Hi. I'm Marge Bailey."


	9. Chapter 9

Santana Lopez never expected to become Rachel Berry's friend. She seemed just so overwhelmingly intense back in high school, for such a ridiculously small person. Everything about her, even her love life, seemed so dramatic. Everyone in her life seemed to be actors in her own personal musical. It didn't help that Santana had started out as one of Sue's minions, dedicated to destroying the Glee Club. Rachel, as one of its leaders, was her natural enemy, at first.

Over the years, however, Santana realized Rachel was the real deal. Her astounding performance at the first Sectionals garnered her Santana's musical respect. But her grating personality brought out the worst in Santana. Probably the worst thing she ever did was to punch Finn's V-Card and then drop that bomb on Rachel at the worst possible moment. She didn't have many regrets, but that was one of them, especially after their kickass duet, and Rachel's subsequent reaching out to her.

Here in New York, the two of them had become even closer. Not only was Santana in awe of Rachel's talents, and how she was crafting her education to get her to the top, she had come to love her open, caring nature. Free of the all the high school baggage, she seemed to have grown into a wonderful person. And how she had recovered from Finn's train station trick showed how personally strong and self-aware she had become.

But Rachel Berry wasn't Superwoman, Santana noted. The cancellation of the wedding had taken its toll on her. She still deeply loved Finn, and he obviously loved her, but the separation was wearing her out. Despite the innovative idea of just texting, Santana knew Rachel was worried sick about Finn's safety. And sleeping with Spicoli, while temporarily beneficial, didn't solve the problem, for either of them.

Frankly, she had been shocked when Kurt contacted her about talking to Finn and delivering that message. But then Kurt dropped the most wonderful news she had heard since graduation: Finn hadn't joined the Army after all. He was in Fort Benning, Georgia, but had been working with Burt to get his father's name cleared. Finn was, basically, a private detective, gathering information so it could be presented to the Department of Defense under Burt's congressional sponsorship.

Santana had practically lost it when she found out, at first.

"Goddamit Lurch," she screamed on the phone, "Do you know what thinking you are in the army may have done to her? Kurt says she isn't sleeping and hangs out at a sleazy diner at all hours."

"There was a reason I let her think that," Finn replied calmly. "She would have followed me, and you know it." She hated when he was right.

So Santana agreed to deliver the message to Rachel when she was at that diner. And she promised Finn that she'd have Rachel's back, as best she could, until his work was done in Georgia. And it was far from done, the Army being as ridiculous over this as it was. That's why she slipped her phone number to Marge, to keep her informed.

Of course, it was clear now, that, settled in New York and back in charge of her destiny, Rachel wasn't about to run off to Georgia after Frankenteen. So their relationship needed some TLC, soon, Santana decided.

She and Marge started talking every day.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Rachel waited in the dorm lounge for Geoff's text. It was one AM Friday morning again, and both of them were back to the pattern of insomnia that nearly drove Geoff over the edge. He was on his way so they could walk to The Arabica together.

Thanksgiving was in two weeks, and Geoff, while excited at the prospect of seeing Elena, was looking haggard again. Rachel was excited to be seeing her dads, Kurt, and Blaine, and getting some down time. Maybe she would hear from Finn, too. But a break. Oh, that sounded good.

She went downstairs to meet him, and they walked together in the cold, but bracing air. Fortunately, the night they spent together did not come between them. In fact, they joked about it. Geoff told her how he had broken the news to Elena, and Rachel shrieked with laughter over her reaction. She was glad for the two of them: they were so fiercely in love, and so sweet and kind to each other. But she also felt good about her and Finn, if you ignored her anxiety over his welfare. She told Geoff there were times when she would gladly trade her wedding day if it meant she could be certain he was safe for just one night.

"That's epic love," Geoff commented, delighting her no end.

They could see the diner was empty, as usual for this time. They took their usual seats . Marge emerged from the back.

"Did you enjoy your few days off, Marge?" Rachel asked, as her coffee was poured. It tasted especially good.

"Thanks, hun, I did," Marge said.

Geoff was already engrossed in a text;, he had a big exam next week. Rachel sat, rapidly losing her will to study. Sometimes the insomnia robbed her of the energy to get the work done; she hated those nights, because it meant being alone with her thoughts, worrying about Finn. Marge had gone into the back again. So Rachel decided to just relax, and pulled the latest issue of _Broadway World_ out of her backpack. She looked at the counter, and realized the pastry tray wasn't there.

"Hey Marge, is there any banana bread in back?" she called. Marge didn't answer right away. It was late-night quiet, both in the diner and the street.

The little bell on the front door jingled. Geoff paid it no attention; Rachel idly looked behind her.

She had resigned herself to day-to-day life without him; she no longer expected to see him every day, that luxury she once was able to enjoy without even thinking. These were the mindlessly kind mechanisms she needed to remain integrated and sane, the same mechanisms widows employ to endure their grief, and move forward. So she wasn't prepared to see his ridiculously large frame filling the doorway, dressed in a leather jacket, white shirt, and jeans. Rachel sat motionless on her stool, mouth slightly open, trying desperately to prevent herself from hoping it was actually him. After all, his hair, while neat, was not in a military cut. But there was the smile. It wasn't the quirky, sexy, half-smile she loved. It was full, sweet, innocent, as if he had just told a girl he loved her for the very first time, backstage, long ago. She swallowed and stood up. Neither of them said anything. There probably were no words two people could say at that moment, after all they had been through. And there were questions each had for the other. But not now. Finn moved forward and just picked Rachel up in his arms. She pressed her face into his neck, feet dangling, her arms wrapped so tightly around him that she thought there was no way he could breathe, and inhaled his familiar, beloved scent. She felt like she was home again.

"You're safe," she whispered.

Geoff sat, amazed at what he was seeing, happy for Rachel. He never noticed Marge emerge from the back with someone. Yet, somehow, he knew. She was near. He turned around, and there she was, bobbing in the swell, sunlight glittering all around her, gloriously ocean-wet, so fucking beautiful it hurt, engraved in his heart, forever.

They were in a bowling alley. She had thrown her first strike, beaming, and jumped up, arms flung around his neck, holding on tightly, feet dangling because he has over a foot taller, _her_ scent filling his world, her small, toned body pressed against him. There was no going back, then; it was all coming back, now.

She was everything to him, his eyes told her, just as they had told her on that beach. The familiar rush came over her, but, this time, it didn't end. She hoped it never would.

Marge stood, watching them. Santana joined her from the back.

"You did good, Marge," Santana said.

"_We_ did good,' Marge corrected her.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Just a few vignettes while I prepare the last couple of chapters. (Added separators. I hate the formatting software this site uses.)**

Various scenes in the diner:

Finally, he planted her back on her feet. Rachel was still in shock, rocking back and forth on her heels, slightly. However, her head cleared, and she stood, tears brimming.

"You're not in the army? "

"No." Finn looked calm and steady. "I'm in Georgia working to clear my dad's name by gathering information, and then I'll present a petition to the Department of Defense. Burt's going to give it congressional sponsorship."

She blinked.

"I'm sorry, Rachel, for making you worry, but I had to make sure you didn't follow me, because I would never have the courage to let you go again, and I couldn't live with myself if you weren't here, doing what you were meant to do. It's like in the film _Casablanca_ we watched: I had to do the thinking for both of us." His eyes bore into hers, searching for a reaction.

Crazily, the first thing in Rachel's head was the idea that Finn just compared her, albeit indirectly, to Ingrid Bergman. But she had something to say.

"Do you remember when I said nobody was one-hundred percent sure of anything?"

He nodded.

"Well, it turns out I am that sure about something." His eyes still burned into her, but she softened, with a gentle smile. "I know you would never do anything to deliberately hurt me." Finn still stared at her. "Even though it did hurt me at the time." A curt nod of regretful acknowledgement.

"Now I have something to tell you," she said, strangely calm about what she was about to reveal.

"I know," said Finn. " Santana told me on the way from the airport. On pain of castration, I am not allowed to speak of it -ever." He grinned, then grew serious. "Your friend was hurting, and you have a huge heart. You couldn't let Geoff suffer like that. It wouldn't be you. And I love the you that did it." Then he smiled again and gathered her back in in his arms.

She realized that she wasn't the only one who was growing up.

**XXXXXXXXX**

"I can't believe it's really you." Geoff cradled Elena's face in his hands.

"How did you get here? "

"Marge came and got me," Elena said, laughing.

"But the expense…" Geoff couldn't help think about what plane tickets on short notice cost.

"Taken care of," Elena smiled, and touched his cheek. "It's our early Christmas present, from both of our families."

"What?" Geoff had always thought both families were lukewarm about his relationship with Elena. He fondly remembered being thirteen and raving to his mother about this beautiful girl surfer he met at the beach that day. At first his family supported him, even though she lived in San Pedro and he lived in Manhattan Beach, and they wouldn't attend the same schools. They thought it would end naturally, first crush and all. Instead, he and Elena grew closer. Even though they liked her, his parents worried about the fact that Elena was his first and only girlfriend. Her family felt similarly, except for her older brother Tony, and despite the fact her father had surfed when he was younger, and had taught the sport to both of his kids. Geoff knew part of the problem with Elena's family was ethnic: both sets of her grandparents were Croatian immigrants from the former Yugoslavia, and why couldn't their sweet granddaughter marry a nice Croatian boy? San Pedro was full of them. Some of them even surfed.

"Apparently," Elena said, in between awesome kisses, "Dad was very impressed by how you treated me over Prom."

"You know I could go with no one else, right?"

"That night you showed him how much I meant to you, that you would do anything for me. He said, after that night, he could feel safe letting you marry his only daughter." She beamed at him.

"Even though I haven't asked you yet?" He grinned, cheekily.

She placed her forehead against his. "The answer is 'yes', whenever you do, you know that, right? And we'll decide when you do- together. Fair enough?"

She kissed him, and then shook her head in wonder. "You taste so damned good, baby."

**XXXXXXXXX**

Rachel, suddenly famished, noticed Marge had brought out a tray of banana bread. Finn decided to go talk with Geoff for a minute, noticing a lull in his and Elena's reunion as she excused herself to the bathroom.

The banana bread tasted wonderful. She was working on her first slice when Elena joined her, tasting a piece, then rolling her eyes in ecstasy. In person, when not seen through a lens, or through Geoff's adoring words, Elena was likably approachable. She was tall, with an athletic build, as could be expected for a surfer, but dressed modestly in a blue Berkeley sweatshirt and jeans. Her skin was tanned, soft and healthy, with a fresh, wholesome look, contrasted with an edgy, short, blonde haircut, setting off her high, Slavic cheek bones perfectly. Her face was prevented from being too severe by full, just-short-of-pouty lips, large, deep-set green eyes, little makeup, and a shy smile.

"Hi Rachel," she said. "I've been wanting to meet you."

"Me too," Rachel said, stood up and gave Elena one of her patented hugs. "I'm sorry I read your letter," she said. "It was far too intimate for an outsider like me to see."

Elena brushed it off. "It bothered me for about a minute, but just because I wasn't there, and you were. I'm not ashamed of my feelings for Geoff," she said, "But thanks for understanding. And…thanks for helping him get that sleep."

Both of them looked over at Finn and Geoff laughing and talking.

"Good God, Rachel," Elena said, almost gawking, "Finn's gorgeous!" Rachel nodded, dreamily. "Um, would you mind if I slept with him one night...you know, just to make us even?"

"Maybe, but not for the next several nights, sorry," said Rachel, giggling.

They both grabbed some more banana bread.

**XXXXXXXXXXXX**

Finn walked over to Geoff. They shook hands.

"Hey Geoff…thanks for being there for Rachel, you know…to talk."

Geoff burst out laughing. "Well, thanks for not dismantling me for sleeping with her."

Finn looked over at her, hugging Elena. "Not a problem. Rachel can't stand by and do nothing when her friends hurt." He paused, watching the two women talk.

"Listen. I still have work to do in Georgia- I'm going to clear my dad's name. "Geoff nodded. "I just wanted you to know I appreciate how you've helped her."

"It's no burden," Geoff said. "We help each other. So…what plans do you have when the work is done?"

Finn smiled. "I'm coming here and never leaving her again, even if I only find work washing dishes." He looked at Geoff.

"What about you?"

"Our parents probably won't like this, but we plan on finding a tiny apartment in one of the beach towns of LA, get crappy jobs, become writers, and surf. Every day. Heaven." He looked up. "Maybe you and Rachel could come out and visit? Get some free surfing lessons."

"Sounds great! Rachel loves the beach, such as they are in Ohio. She rocks a bikini, son."

"Well then, Elena can take her to this little bikini shop in Hermosa Beach where she gets hers. She gives me a heart attack every time she buys a new one."

They fist bumped. It was going to be awesome.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: The lyrics are from "The End", by John Lennon and Paul McCartney**

Rachel and Elena walked over and dragged Marge over to the rest of them. She had been standing, smiling, and watching the happiness from afar.

"We'd like to thank you and Santana," Rachel said, "For helping us survive this first major separation."

"Speech! Speech!"

Santana bowed, choosing not to speak. Marge, embarrassed, stood, hands clasped in front of her. At first it seemed that she, too, had chosen not to speak. She closed her eyes and tilted her head upward for a few moments, then smiled and opened her eyes. There were tears.

"For a long time," she said, "I've been alone. And I first came to work here because my grief wouldn't let me sleep." Marge pulled an old picture from her apron pocket and held it, moving her fingers across it like a rosary. "But after meeting Rachel and Geoff, and seeing how their connections to their loved ones had turned them into sleepless nighthawks like me, I wanted to help them. You see," she glanced down at the picture for a moment, "I can't get my Nigel back, and if keeping him in my heart means losing some sleep, it's a price I'm willing to pay. But I couldn't stand by and watch the four of you suffer like this, when all that was needed was a friendly ear, good coffee, and a willingness to help."

"It's not all selfless, though," she said, and everyone saw her seem to transform herself back into that happy young woman in the picture. "Nigel's favorite band was the Beatles, and he loved that line from _Abbey Road_:

_And in the end, the love you take_

_Is equal to the love you make._

He wanted us to make as much love as we could, because he wanted me to have it."

Then she bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut.

"When he became ill, he was determined for us to make as much love as we could, because he wanted me to have it after he was gone. Nigel got it in his head that he could build up enough to get me through the rest of my life, too. We did it all of the time, everywhere we could." Marge opened her eyes, blissful at the memory, but it was soon lost in shadow.

"Even when he had no strength left, he still tried… I didn't have the heart to tell him to stop, that it was killing me to see him like that. You see, it meant that much to him—_I_ meant that much to him."

Her shoulders sagged.

"He died happy, in his sleep; that's all that mattered to me. But it didn't work the way he wanted: soon afterwards the insomnia started. I guess I spent it all. " She paused, to gather herself together.

"I think helping you is my way of making love again." She smiled. "I think its working; I've had a few eight-hour bouts of sleep since you have come into my life."

It was quiet. Marge walked up to Finn and Rachel.

"I have one more thing." She rummaged in her apron pocket and pulled out a slip of paper.

"Finn," she said, "I sent that video of your Nationals performance to one of Nigel's old colleagues at Tisch. Rachel, of course, blew him away, but she wasn't the only performer that impressed him. He would like to see you Monday at 1:15. Your flight leaves at 4PM, so it shouldn't be a problem. I told him about what you were doing for your dad, and he said that was ok, he'd like to talk anyway." She handed the paper to a dumbfounded Finn, and an ecstatic Rachel.

"Marge, you are a miracle worker!" Rachel said, jumping over the counter and hugging her.

"No, hun," Marge said, "Just an old theatre rat who can smell talent as well as you can." She held Rachel close. "That's the core of your tether, you know: a mutual love of music and performing. You recognized it in yourself at an early age, and had parents who helped you develop it. You saw it in Finn the moment you met. He's just a little behind. Training will let it blossom."

"I love you, Marge," Rachel whispered fiercely.

Marge heard that Beatles song in her head.

"I love you too, hun."

Santana broke the festivities up—again. "Ok, Rachel and Spicoli have class today, so its time to get them into bed." She winked at Elena. "Since he has his own room, I'll drop you at the dorm. Frankenteen, hail a cab and take Rachel to the hotel you spent your honeymoon money on and see she gets her diva-sleep before class." Then she hugged Marge.

"It's been a pleasure sneaking around with you."

After all the tears and rounds of hugs, Marge watched them leave. Before polishing the cutlery, though, she ate a slice of banana bread, then kissed the picture. She still missed him; she always would. She hoped he would be at the Ibsen play she was beginning rehearsals for next week.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: A little fluffery. **

Holding her bag, Geoff led Elena down the hall to his room. She smiled at the sticker on the door, and followed him inside. Her head shook slowly at its neatness.

"Boy are you in for a shock when we start living together, baby."

He pulled her close and kissed her deeply. "You're not messy," he said, "You're just not me. You know, Dad says one of the things he likes about you is your more relaxed approach to this kind of stuff. He thinks you are a good influence on me."

"I wish your mom felt the same way," Elena said, wistfully.

Geoff shrugged. "I can't figure her out sometimes. And to be fair, it's not that she doesn't like you. Remember when you taught her to make Croatian braised lamb for my birthday? It was like a slumber party in the kitchen. And she certainly respects you intellectually. He pulled her close again, and kissed her eyes, which always relaxed her. "My guess is, she wanted a string of girlfriends to hate before the right one came along. Shame on you for depriving her of that." She giggled.

"Okay, Fielding, off with the clothes" Elena ordered. He dutifully stripped down to his shorts, and crawled into bed. "Where's my t-shirt?"

"In the bag in the third drawer, baby," Geoff said, watching her.

She pulled it out. It was white, with a picture of D.H. Lawrence. She smiled, pulling off her sweatshirt and Radiohead t-shirt underneath, then her shoes, jeans and bra, leaving a simple black pair of panties. As she pulled on the shirt, Geoff was struck at how good it looked against her tanned skin. She slipped into bed with him and he took her in his arms. He loved the feel of toned muscle underneath the feminine softness of her skin. She laughed throatily as she felt him, pressed against her. "Down, cowboy," she said. "Sleep first. I set an alarm in time for a quick shag before class."

He nuzzled sleepily against her. "I love you, Elena," he murmured.

She drank in his clean, simple scent—he smelled of handmade soap they used in beach showers to wash off the saltwater- and held him close, one hand cradling his head, tangled in long, clean hair. "Oh baby, I love you, too. Good night".

Within minutes he was asleep. Elena stayed awake a little longer, enjoying his warmth, and his scent, but most of all, just his presence. She marveled at his quiet, simple decency, and her incredible luck that day on the beach when she summoned up the courage to approach him and ask if she could borrow his surf wax comb, even though she had one of her own, tucked in her bag. She drifted off eventually, soothed by the beating of his heart.

XXXXXXX

Rachel had Finn first stop by her dorm, where she gathered a few things, and then they drove to the Manhattan hotel where Finn was staying. It wasn't particularly fancy, but she was so tired she barely noticed. She went into the bathroom. In her bag was a pair of black-and-white striped pajamas, and for a moment the practical side of her debated with the naughty side over whether she should wear anything at all. The result was a compromise: Rachel came out, naked, but with her hair in a braid. She struck a sultry pose. "Sleep, Class, Dinner, Sex, in that order," she sang out. Finn was in bed already, in a t-shirt and shorts, laughing.

"Hey Hudson, we may be just sleeping right now, but I want you buck naked, bub."

He complied gladly, as she crawled into bed, facing him. It seemed like they were where they should be, as if the Universe had gently set something right, like the painless resetting of a dislocated joint. Rachel reached out, delicately, and stroked Finn's face with her hands, shaking her head slowly. "I missed you. I missed you for so long. I wondered if I'd ever see you again. I even-"

He kissed her. "I missed you as well, so badly I almost started drinking. But I'm here now, and we can talk later. Right now you need sleep, baby."

"Okay" Rachel said, surrendering, but not before Finn saw, fleetingly, that enigmatic smile she gave him on the school staircase, so long ago. She rolled over and he spooned tightly against her, enveloping Rachel in his arms, cupping her breasts in his hands, letting her feel his desire for her. She purred her approval, just as she used to.

"Mmmm…I like that," she whispered, and then, sleepily, "You're safe. I feel safe now, and I love you." Then she let go.

It occurred to him, then- before surrendering himself- that he was the only person who could get Rachel Berry to let go of anything. He vowed to use that kind of power wisely. "Good night, baby, I love you too," he said, and turned out the light.


	13. Chapter 13

Rachel bounced out of her last vocal class, and into Finn's arms in the hall. Up on her tiptoes, she planted a monumental kiss on his lips, and hugged him like she hadn't seen him in years. Finn couldn't believe how only three hours of sleep had re-energized her. He'd been sitting in this hall as she went from one class to the next, listening to her singing snippets of songs over and over for four solid hours, all on one avocado, lettuce and tomato sandwich she grabbed for lunch at the dorm.

It was five o'clock, though, and he knew that her furnace would need restoking soon.

"C'mon, Hudson! You must feed me now!" she ordered gaily, pointing at the exit. She linked arms with him as they walked out of the building. She was excited, revved up, even after what sounded to him like nothing but drills.

"I was having trouble biting into this particular verse in that last class," she went on, "But I think I'm beginning to understand what my coach is telling me. It took an hour; I think we can move on to the next verse now. Fortunately, Meredith (did I tell you she was a vocal coach at the Met for years?) is patient, and gives excellent feedback."

It was good to hear her so focused and enthusiastic. He felt better about his decision to put her on that train.

They were headed to a burger place near NYU that she recommended. She said it was relatively cheap but delicious, and told him not to dress up, but to stay in that leather jacket and jeans that he wore last night. Finn could swear he caught her staring when she thought he wasn't looking. She remained casual, wearing her white NYADA sweatshirt and skinny jeans, and these cool ankle-high suede boots, and her hair still in a braid from her nap. She looked fresh, intense, and utterly, irresistibly, cute.

"Were you bored, waiting for me?" she asked, as they waited for a traffic light.

"No," he said, truthfully, "I could hear you singing, which is never boring." She gave him this adoring look. "And a couple of people stopped and said they recognized me with you on the Nationals video, which was cool. You are, like famous!" He felt her hand on his forearm.

"So are you, baby," she said proudly.

"So," she said, after ordering her Portobello mushroom cheeseburger, "Are you excited about Monday? "

"Hell yes, baby," Finn retorted. He had ordered a regular burger, and the two of them were going to share this _boat_ of fries. She looked happy that he seemed to like the place; the fact he was able to order a beer for him and Rachel without getting carded helped. It always pleased him that she actually liked beer, particularly the hoppy, bitter ones, claiming that they helped replenish electrolytes after a strenuous performance. He adored the little Rachel belches, too, of which she was not ashamed, nor tried to hide. She was a fascinating blend of the utterly girly and the down-to-earth. He happily realized it would take a lifetime to figure Rachel out.

When the food arrived they were deep into a discussion of his work in Georgia. Burt had managed to wrangle a small stipend for him as a member of Burt's staff, which paid for a tiny studio apartment. He worked part time in a tire shop there to feed himself. The rest of his time was spent going through what records he could and gathering information from witnesses to his father's heroism.

"He'd be very proud of you," Rachel said, taking his hand.

Eventually they moved to his plans once the work was done.

"I'm moving to New York," Finn said, "And live with Blaine and Kurt. When they get here. I'll work odd jobs until I figure out about school." Rachel beamed.

"Then you can move in with us!" Finn said excitedly, but was brought up short when he saw Rachel's expression change. It wasn't anything alarming, it was just a look of serene certainty. She took his hands in hers.

"Finn, I'm staying in the dorms at NYADA for the full four years."

He felt as if his chair had been pulled out from under him. "What? I thought living together was what you wanted."

A slow, almost-smile crept over her face..

"Remember when you said you were setting me free?" She looked calm, almost dreamy.

"Yes, of course".

"I took you at your word, Finn, and I took complete charge of making my Broadway dream a reality. You were right about not getting married, but that also applies to living together. Here in the dorms I'm freed from having to take care of meals and bills and other day-to-day issues. You've seen what I do at school. It's like that every day, and most weekends as well. I've been able to work on my craft almost non-stop, with personal supervision and few distractions. I even qualify for a single room next year so I don't have to deal with roommate hassles. NYADA is like having my own personal dream workshop, 24/7. " She could see his face fall, so she gripped his hands even tighter.

"Finn, don't be sad or disappointed. You gave my dream back to me, at a huge cost to yourself. The only way I can fulfill the freedom you gave me is to take every tool NYADA has to offer in both hands and use them to hone my art, until I'm ready to take this town by the throat. Because that is the only way I will ever deserve you. Do you understand? Do you understand how fucking much I love you for what you did? "

He had taken a comparative religions course with Rachel their senior year. One of the things he remembered was the concept of satori, or the sudden rush of enlightenment, such as Buddha experienced under the bodhi tree. It involved the almost counterintuitive idea of seeing everything and nothing at once, the act of emptying ones mind and filling it simultaneously with reality. It didn't make sense to him then. But it sure as hell did now. In a flash, he saw the pre-Glee club Rachel Berry, alone, friendless, but relentlessly focused, and, simultaneously, the Glee Club Rachel, who found love, and her basic humanity while almost faltering in her dream because of it. The two images, when merged holistically, became what he now saw before him: the beautiful, self-assured, driven, insanely talented dynamo he loved, and the kind, big-hearted, sexy woman he adored. Rachel had managed to bring back her old driven self without sacrificing her humanity at all. He could only sit there in wonder, mouth open.

She looked at him curiously. "Are you okay, Finn?" she asked.

"Oh yeah," he said. "I love you."

She smiled, looking relieved. "So, do you support my decision?"

"Of course. On one condition, though."

"What's that?"

He grinned wickedly. "That we give each other booty calls whenever we can."

She gave him a deadpan look. "Of course. Missing my lover is a distraction I can't afford."

XYXYXYXYXYXYXYXYXXY

They entered the hotel room, pleasantly full. While Finn used the bathroom, Rachel got undressed and let down her hair. She crawled into bed and waited in the darkness. Physically, she ached for him. And when he joined her, and his kisses became insistent and she could feel how much he wanted her, she let go all boundaries between herself and the soul that called himself Finn Hudson .

When in high school, the two of them engaged in the usual banter about their sex lives with their friends; Finn, the usual locker room talk, and Rachel the wry Victorian "Lie back, and think of England" joking. But none of their friends, indeed no one at all but themselves, were privy to what they truly did or felt. Each was young, healthy, eager, and certainly passionate; those who sometimes had to endure hearing them having sex, like Kurt, could attest to that. But no one saw the sweetness, consideration, and joy sex brought out in them. The fact was, each absolutely adored the other, and sex between them was more a celebration of that adoration than the simple giving and receiving of physical pleasure. It was, in a very real sense, their personal communion.

It certainly was that night.


	14. Chapter 14

"Are you asleep?" Rachel whispered, as they lay together in the darkness. Her head was on Finn's chest, right leg bent, draped over him, palm moving in slow circles on his shoulder, fingers occasionally massaging a scar there absently: her favorite post-coital position. She was warm, that persistent ache for him mercifully gone for now, happier than she could remember for a while. His chest rose and fell with his breathing, taking her with it, tapping perhaps a soothing memory from her childhood, of being in the cradle. Maybe she would sing a lullaby to him, if he was still awake.

"Not yet," he replied. As if to prove it, he began rubbing her back, unconsciously in the same rhythm as her with his shoulder, the two of them, ever in synch. Her skin was sumptuously soft, flawless, yet, just underneath, was the formidably firm muscle of her dancer's body. It was even firmer than he remembered; she had told him how much harder she was focusing on her dancing. Because she was so small, he was easily able to drop his hand to her buttocks, again marveling at how firm they were; she gave a little mew of pleasure.

"Marge said something to me last night, about our tether," Rachel said.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, she said it was built mainly on our mutual love of music and performing, and that I had a nose for seeing talent in people, just like her. " Rachel stopped tracing circles and pulled his head to her for a kiss. "That set me thinking back to just after you joined Glee club, and we went to see Vocal Adrenaline. Remember? "

Of course he remembered. He kissed the top of her head.

"We were in line at the concession stand, and I told you that you were very talented."

She could feel him smiling in the darkness.

"I know you must have thought I was just smitten by you, with my little dramatic description of us as an item," she went on, "And later, when you started getting ribbed about your dancing and singing by the others, I think you somehow bought into that as the truth, and dismissed what I kept telling you as just my infatuation talking."

It was true. He loved her confidence in him, but always felt it was misplaced, a case of love blinding her to his (obvious) faults.

"I know you thought I was just a silly, annoying girl at first, and I probably was, but I had been training for this dream my whole life. I had heard and seen lots of other people singing and dancing and acting. I knew what good sounded and looked like then. Yes, you are fucking gorgeous, and I thought that the moment I laid eyes on you, but my assessment of you as talented was dead-on, professionally accurate. It wasn't just my desire to get into your pants talking. "

Finn smiled, listening. Even though she wasn't, in his minds eye he could see her wagging her finger at him.

"Now, there was a reason we were paired for duets so often, and it wasn't just our good looks." She pressed her palm on his shoulder as she emphasized her points. "We have proven harmonies. Yes, I admit some songs just aren't suited to your voice—as much as I love you, singing Bee Gees songs just isn't your thing-" Finn laughed out loud at that, "—but you more often than not just killed duets with me. And you seem to forget who the lead vocalist was on 'Paradise By the Dashboard Light'. Baby, you kicked that song in the balls, to use Santana's expression." She giggled and kissed him.

"I guess what I want you to know, before you talk to NYU on Monday, is that you are talented, and I'm not the only one who thinks so. It was that horrible town, baby, that squelched your ability to recognize it and get it nurtured. I almost had to be a pariah to resist Lima's poisonous, provincial, atmosphere. And early on I recognized an essential part of me in you, too. I never expected to meet a kindred soul in that place. But I did, and I'll never regret loving you for the rest of my days."

She clung to his body; he felt her tears on his chest.

"I never expected to find you, either," he said, still rubbing her back. "I knew I was unhappy where I was, even as quarterback, and dating Quinn. By all high school measures, I should have been satisfied. But then you came along. "He then sounded sad, longing. "But I squandered you. And then almost derailed your dreams."

"Stop." He paused. "Just stop, Finn. Remember what you're going to be doing on Monday. I just want you to know the true nature of our tether. We were made to do great things, musically, together. And I also want you to know how it's no fluke that this professor is interested in you."

"Thanks, baby," he said, and relaxed. "I have no idea what he's going to actually want to talk about. I mean, what if he offers me a music scholarship? I…" He drifted off in thought. Then he surprised her with a new firmness in his voice. "If I do get in, and can afford it, I think I'll follow your example, and stay in the dorms there."

Rachel clung to him harder, and kissed him deeply. "My God, Finn, that would be like heaven… and we'd only be half a mile away from each other."

"Of course, people will probably think that's weird," he said, "But it would give both of us the chance to fulfill what I was trying to tell you at the train station. And…" He took her face in his hands and kissed her eyes," It would be pretty romantic, you know? Even better than us in a shoebox apartment".

His hand dropped past her lower back again, over her twin cheeks and into the soft fold of the conjunction of her thighs, feeling a damp warmth growing there. Rachel began moving slowly against his hand, moaning slightly, breasts rubbing against his chest. She gently bit his lower lip, then murmured, "Do you know how much I love the idea of us forging dreams in the arts together in New York? Do you know how much I admire and respect your talent? Do you know how much I absolutely cherish you? Do you have any idea how hot you look in a leather jacket and jeans? " She took his fingers and sucked on them slowly, tasting herself, sensing him now feverishly pressing against her leg, and there was no drawing back: each joyfully surrendered their respective sovereignty to the other, again.

It was very late. Rachel sensed Finn was just barely awake. Now was the perfect time, she thought, to sing him that lullaby. She picked the best adult lullaby she knew:

_Golden slumbers fill your eyes_

_Smiles awake you when you rise_

_Sleep pretty darling do not cry_

_And I will sing a lullaby. _

**A/N: Lyric is from the song "Golden Slumbers", by John Lennon and Paul McCartney**


	15. Chapter 15

Saturday night, Rachel and Finn had pizza with Elena and Geoff. They talked about the differences between Ohio, Southern California and New York. The two Californians winced when Finn told them of his plans with Puck for a pool cleaning business.

"It might be hard to break into the business there," Geoff said, with Elena nodding, "I imagine there's a lot of ready-made competition. But then, neither of our families has a pool."

"If you don't count the Pacific Ocean, that is," Elena joked.

Rachel liked Elena immensely. The two of them shared a veggie pizza with extra mushrooms. It was somewhat warm in the restaurant, so Elena took off her sweatshirt. Underneath she wore a black t-shirt with the Stavros logo, and when Rachel asked about it, she said it was a surf shop in San Pedro. "My mom and dad gave me a custom-made board from there for my sixteenth birthday," she said, awed, "It took, among other things, my height into consideration, which had always been a problem with the board I used to use."

"She kicks major ass on that thing," Geoff remarked, and Elena rolled her eyes, but Rachel loved watching their mutual affection and respect coming through.

Like Rachel, she had used ballet class to help her balance and enhance her flexibility, but was looking at yoga now.

She told Rachel and Finn about her writing. Elena loved writers like Lawrence, Hemingway and Virginia Woolf because they explored the incredible impact World War One had on their generation, and culture in general. Elena wanted to be a voice like those for her generation, to speak of the impact the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan had on her older brother, Tony, who served in the 101st Airborne in both places, and his fellow vets and families.

"Tony came back whole, physically and mentally," she said, "However, his view of things, from his family up to the world, changed. And I'd like to explore that change in all of its facets." Rachel watched Geoff just beam with pride as she spoke.

Later, Geoff began telling Finn how he and Elena had convinced the notoriously territorial—even violent- Lunada Bay locals to let them surf that big-wave spot, and Rachel took the opportunity to ask Elena about Geoff's writing.

"He's very secretive about it," she said, and Elena agreed.

"You've seen his room, Rachel," she said. "Geoff is meticulous about things like that, and he works and reworks stuff before he even lets me look at it. But damn, he's good, by far the best writer I know. His prose looks loose and flowing, almost stream-of-consciousness, yet, when I sit down and take a close look for editing, it's clear he chooses every word, every phrase- hell, every comma—very carefully, and places them in the sentence that way for a specific reason. He could become the next James Joyce." She sighed. "And look at him. Sex on legs. I am well and truly blessed." While Geoff wasn't looking, Elena stole a piece of Italian sausage from his pizza, and shrugged. "So sue me. I love this stuff."

Geoff and Finn's conversation had moved on to football, so Rachel told Elena a little more about Finn, and how they met, and the weird twists and turns that got them here. Elena was excited for Finn about the possibility of NYU, and was pleased by their decision to stay in the dorms of their respective schools.

"I understand where you're coming from on dorms, "she said. "Living in the dorm saves me a lot of hassle. My roommate Joanne wanted us to get an apartment together, but I talked her out of it. We'll still room together, though; we have staggered schedules, so we're never in each other's way. And we actually get along when we're in the same room together."

She then gave Rachel her take on how the two of them met on the beach when they were thirteen.

"Purely sexual attraction," she quipped.

"Hey!" Geoff interjected, "You told me you were impressed by my technique."

"I was _thirteen_, Geoff, what the hell did I know about technique? You were hot, and I wanted a piece of that action before any surf sluts spoiled you."

"She's a way better surfer than I am." Geoff winked.

"He's actually right about that," Elena said. Then, rolling her eyes: "But nothing else."

They all laughed; Rachel thought it was adorable how each seriously considered the other the better writer.

When the evening ended, Finn and Rachel hugged Elena, whose flight to Oakland was in the morning, and promised to communicate during the Thanksgiving break. Then they went their separate ways. Finn and Rachel ended up at the hotel a little earlier than they expected.

"You know, we haven't actually talked about Thanksgiving yet," Finn said. Rachel looked at him.

"Are you going to be there? " she asked.

"Of course," Finn said, momentarily puzzled.

"Good," Rachel said, giggling. Then she tackled him.

XYXYXYXYX

Professor John Sheets's office at Tisch was not particularly hard to find. Finn was nervous, but even more curious about what he wanted to talk about. He wore his dark suit and grey tie; Rachel gave him an approving onceover before he left. She had a class at one, and he insisted she go; in fact, he insisted she attend her two other classes that afternoon, saying it brought them that much closer to meeting at the end, as he put it, and that they would see each other in two weeks in Lima . He saw her struggle with the idea of not seeing him off at the airport, but she finally relented, kissing him within an inch of his life.

"You call me the minute you land", she ordered. Then she softened: "Break a leg."

He gave her that full, innocent smile. "I love you,' he said, then was gone.

"Finn Hudson, right? I'm John Sheets." Sheets was a rumpled, intense-looking man in his late fifties, with a mess of salt-and-pepper hair, and intense blue eyes. He was dressed in a blue oxford cloth shirt and brown corduroy trousers. He shook Finn's hand firmly, and ushered him into an incredibly cluttered office, littered with books, sheet music and playbills.

"Margaret sent me a video of your performance at the Show Choir Nationals. She and I have been friends for years; her husband Nigel was at Oxford when I was there on a Rhodes scholarship. " Reaching behind him, he grabbed a framed picture, showing two young, bearded men with enormous backpacks, standing on a trail, before a background of enormous, snow-covered peaks.

"That's Nigel and me in Nepal, in nineteen-seventy-eight," he said, with a mist in his eyes." He met Margaret three years later." Finn could see the affection for both of them in his eyes.

"I have to say, I was impressed, but just to make sure I called Carmen Thibedaux, also a friend, and asked her what she thought about your performance." Finn gulped, and Sheets nodded sympathetically.

"Yeah, she's pretty intimidating, but excruciatingly honest." He smiled.

"She said she was there to see your fiancée, Rachel Berry, but remembered you as being very rough, but 'with potential'. Finn's heart sank. It sounded like he wasn't Tisch material. Sheets noticed his reaction, and said, "She also said, 'John, I think you could do wonders for that boy.'"

At first Finn didn't understand, and said so. Sheets just smiled.

"Finn, do you know what the word 'synergy' means?" Finn shook his head.

"Synergy occurs when two or more things combine, or interact, to produce something greater than the sum of its parts." Finn nodded.

Sheets turned his computer monitor towards Finn and came around behind him, holding the wireless keyboard. The video of "Paradise By The Dashboard Light" was queued up. "I'm now going to show you a textbook case of synergy in the arts."

For years afterwards, Finn would relate this story as one of the pivotal moments of his life, behind only finding out the truth about his father, and meeting Rachel Berry.

"I want you to pay more attention to the audience reaction as we go through this," Sheets said," and less on the performance itself. But first I want to point something out." He fast forwarded the video to the moment when Rachel appeared on stage, dancing into his arms. He smiled at that. Sheets looked at him. "Margaret said you had doubts about your dancing. I just wanted to ask you if you knew Rachel wasn't a natural dancer." Finn looked up in surprise.

"What are you talking about?" He wasn't sure he liked this guy's nerve.

Sheets chuckled. "Listen, I'm not saying she's a bad dancer; she's actually very good. What I am saying is, she got that way through very hard work and discipline, not a natural gift. " He zoomed around the video, then said, 'Now this girl—" he was pointing at Brittany—"This girl is a natural." He patiently explained how Brittany's body _flowed_ into each movement change, whereas Rachel commanded her body make the change before executing it, resulting in a minute, almost unnoticeable, delay between moves. The goal of dance training, he said, was to make that transition smaller and smaller to where it almost looks natural.

Finn suddenly realized it was just like football drills. The reason they executed plays over and over was to for them to become natural, so that at the game they didn't have to consciously command their bodies to move that way. It all made sense. Then he had another sudden realization. That's why Rachel used to love going into the stands to watch football and cheerleading practices—even before meeting him. It was something to which she could very well relate.

"Now let's look at your moves," Sheets said, "They are actually fairly respectable. Frankly, I don't know where you got this idea that you were some kind of congenital oaf. If you look carefully, especially that sequence where Rachel dances into your arms, the only reason Rachel looks smoother is that she has trained her body to respond to her commands faster. It's a difference in degree, Finn. Proper dance training, specifically tailored to take your size into account, can get you there, too."

Unbelievable. The thought he might actually be able to dance decently floored him. He saw himself taking Rachel out dancing just for the fun of it. She would love that, he knew it.

"Now, let's get back to the audience." Sheets paused the video to right before Rachel's solo. "Notice that he audience hasn't really warmed up yet." He started the video again, and Finn could hear the audience begin to clap to Rachel's 'Before we go any further'. He kinda wanted to clap himself. The video stopped again. "Rachel is really laying it on the audience, both with her moves and voice, and they are responding," Sheets pointed out, then let the video continue. Right after the 'Let me sleep on it' sequence he stopped yet again. "I have to ask you a question, Finn. Those wonderful mincing steps you took as you ran offstage—they weren't choreographed, were they?"

Finn laughed. "No… I guess I just got caught up in a dorky moment. Wow. I don't even remember doing that." The professor just smiled, and the video resumed.

"Here's what I truly wanted you to see," Sheets said, and Fin watched as he and Rachel swept forward towards the audience to sing the finale. The audience suddenly went insane, swaying and clapping loudly, carried away by the power of the performance. "Do you feel the increase in energy? " Sheets asked. "It's not just the rhythm of the song. It's the two of you together, charging up the auditorium. And your expressions and phrasing were spot-on. You held that audience in the palm of your hand. I bet you felt it, too."

"I did feel it," Finn admitted.

"It was the power of both of your performances, Finn, combining to electrify an audience to a level beyond what each could have individually."

Sheets turned off the video and went back to his chair.

"So. I guess you figured I didn't ask you here just to give you a pep talk and show a video."

"That did cross my mind," Finn said, smiling.

"I wanted to show you how, with the proper education and training, plus your basic, raw talent, you could forge a career in musical theatre."

Finn just looked at him. He continued.

"I'm an educator, Finn. My job, my passion, is to take raw talent and train it to be great, to provide the structure to allow you to make that happen. Margaret has a great nose for talent, that's why I took her suggestion and studied your performance, I trust her. I'd like you to consider applying to Tisch. I think you'd be a great fit. And, to be perfectly frank, I always like the opportunity to make Carmen Thibodaux jealous. However, she claimed a great prize getting your fiancée."

Finn was stunned. "I-I- Thank you. I'm not sure I can, financially that is…"

Sheets looked at him good-naturedly. "Geez, you drive a hard bargain. Ok, listen. Margaret told me something else. You see, when her husband died, she took a large portion of his considerable life insurance and the proceeds of his farm in England to create her own, unofficial scholarship fund as a memorial to him. She and I are co-trustees of this "fund", but she has sole responsibility to designate the recipients: she didn't want some committee to decide. Over the years, she has made only two recommendations. One was for a student named Gerry Millings, who went on to win four Tony awards. The only other recommendation has been you. She told me that her nose sensed you and Rachel Berry were destined for great things together, but that you needed help not only to see your own potential, which I think we just did, but also financial help to bring it about. "

Finn was just stunned before; he was floored now.

"I'm honored…" was all he could say. "But I have to finish my work on my father's discharge—I assume Marge—Margaret—told you about that?"

Sheets smiled. "Of course. I think it's marvelous what you are doing. When you are ready, let Margaret know. And we'll set the wheels in motion."

Before he could leave, the professor shook his hand.

"Nigel was a good friend, and Margaret was the love of his life. It gives her great joy to honor his memory this way. I hope we can see you soon."

He left the school in a daze and prepared to leave for the airport. But first things first:

_*Thank you for believing in me. I love you* _


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: and with this we come to a close. I'd like to thank all who hung in there and encouraged me with reviews. It was a gas! **

Thanksgiving morning Marge Bailey awoke early, while it was still dark (she took Wednesday night off to prepare food). Reaching over to the nightstand, she picked up the gold chain with the tiny vial, and raised it to her lips.

"Good morning, baby," she said, and kissed him, as she had done every day for the past ten years, but this morning added "Happy Thanksgiving."

The tiny, sealed vial contained a few of Nigel's ashes. The rest she had scattered over a pasture on his farm in England one perfect summer's day, dressed in his favorite summer print dress, running barefoot through the rich grass, to the lazy buzz of insects and the trilling of birds. It was also the day she finally stopped aching to join him, and chose to live instead.

She pulled on her robe and prepared some coffee, looking in the refrigerator to check on the mandarin orange trifle dessert she had prepared last night for Thanksgiving dinner with the Sheets. The sponge cake, oranges and orange Jell-O base layer was set perfectly in the cut crystal bowl, as was the lovely yellow-orange middle layer of thick Bird's custard. The custard was firm and substantial, not runny, just as Nigel's mother had taught her to make it. All that was left to prepare was the top layer of fresh whipped cream and some mandarin orange slices for decoration. She got out her mixer and the container of whipping cream. Her trifles were not traditional; they contained no alcohol. People loved them anyway because they were invariably fresh, sweet, and delicious.

Marge always enjoyed Thanksgiving with John and Mary, but this would be special. Her recommendation of Finn Hudson for the scholarship (it was actually more the case that the trust would be assigned as a third party payor assigned to Finn's student account) would sparkle up the conversation, she was sure.

Whipping the cream, Marge was excited about Rachel and Finn. Something about the way the two of them performed together, the way they channeled their adoration for each other into song and motion, that infectious chemistry, made her wonder what would happen when they were unleashed after being properly trained. She grinned; glad she would be alive to witness the birth of what might become one of the truly great artistic partnerships. She shuddered to think how close it had come to being stillborn. They were so young and inexperienced when they met, anything could have wrecked it. Marge was determined to be there to nurture them along.

She felt similarly towards Elena and Geoff. Their sweet, serene, love affair lacked the tumultuous drama of Rachel and Finn's, but it too possessed the potential of producing great art.

She took her coffee over to the kitchen table and picked up a book. Her phone buzzed. There was an email from Rachel, titled "Happy Thanksgiving!" The body of the email said "We love you, Marge. Thanks for everything. Finn and Rachel". Below that was a picture, apparently taken in bed. Finn looked fast asleep, and Rachel was cuddled close to him, covers up to her neck, wearing an impish grin. Marge laughed.

Geoff's email came around ten o'clock. Its subject line read "Surf's Up" . She noticed copies were sent to Rachel and Finn. The body simply said, "Happy Thanksgiving, from Molly, Elena and Geoff". It too, had a picture, of Elena and Geoff in wetsuits on the beach, hunkered down for the camera, smiling. Sitting between them was a beautiful border collie, a well-chewed Frisbee at its feet.

Thanksgiving had always been a puzzle to her. It just didn't seem to make sense to tie feelings of thanksgiving to the motion of the earth around the Sun. This time, however, Marge felt the holiday came with perfect timing. Her fellow nighthawks were with their soul mates and getting some sleep. She could definitely be thankful for that, she thought, as she made her way to the Sheets'.

She thanked herself for choosing, in that Devon meadow so long ago, to not let her grief consume her, and to live. And she thanked him for the life he gave her, and his sweetness, and how she wished that sweetness could transfer itself into her trifle, in some poignant kind of transubstantiation, so those that loved him could sense his presence again instead of depending on the vagaries of memory.

Hugging her cardboard box with the trifle bowl inside, Marge rang the Sheets' doorbell. It was going to be great from now on, she could feel it.

**FIN **


End file.
